


Friendship and Magic

by Aiashi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Humor, Attempt at Humor, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Light Angst, POV Third Person Limited, Reincarnation, Self-Insert, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:35:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 53,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23139346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aiashi/pseuds/Aiashi
Summary: This is a Self Insert. He's a bit of a grouch and doesn't like people, but he also hasn't had any friends for a while so he might be willing to give it another go. He's never seen Harry Potter or read the books. But it's a children's series, so it'll probably be fine. His name is Art. Artorius Caecilius Crouch, to be exact. But don't call him that or he'll get sort of annoyed.
Comments: 82
Kudos: 404
Collections: A Collection of Beloved Inserts





	1. Prelude

After he died, he woke up.

In retrospect, this was his first of many clues that something was off.  
  
Trying to move, all he was able to pull off was a bunch of wiggling with little to no precision. Speech? Ear piercing wails with pathetic lungs and a bloated, useless tongue. Even seeing was right out. Washed out colors with everything so far out of focus that even opening his eyes was headache-inducing.  
  
It was a lot to take in all at once. Trying to calm down and focus, even that proved difficult. Deep breaths? Fat chance of that with his weak, atrophied lungs. In fact, caught between gasping for air and trying to speak, he didn’t like his chances of calming down.  
  
At any rate, he would do his best. Very calm, calm as can be. Picture of serenity.  
  
For now, he decided to table the growing list of issues until later, and focus on what he _did_ have.  
  
Hearing, and…  
  
Yeah, hearing. Not too shabby.  
  
“Congratulations, Mr. Crouch, your wife has given birth to a—”  
  
“Yes, yes, that’s fine. I’m well aware of why I’ve come all this way,” the other voice interrupted, annoyance giving way to actual concern. “Tell me now, how is my Cecilia?”  
  
Right, there was a lot to unpack right there. Apparently he had woken up just in time to be born. Neat.  
  
It was also super weird, so he decided to table that as well.  
  
His fragile concentration broke when a sense of dizziness and air passing over his skin told him he was being moved. A rough exchange of hands had him hanging in front of what he assumed was a man. Vision was still touch and go, but his theory was confirmed when the person spoke with a suitably deep voice, the same rude one from before.  
  
He focused on the sounds once again.  
  
“So this is the boy.” It wasn’t a question. Another shift of grip and his body was turned back and forth without care. He got the feeling he was being inspected.  
  
The man grunted, “Acceptable.”  
  
Such tender fatherly love. His heart was bursting at the seams already.  
  
A moment passed before he spoke again, sounding confused, “What’s wrong with him? Why has he stopped crying?”  
  
Because he was dead inside, and this was all an illusion. He tried to say as much, but it came out as incoherent gurgling.  
  
Right, babies couldn’t talk. Duh.  
  
“Oh, it looks as though you have quite the calming touch, Mr. Crouch.”  
  
The nerve of some people. He could stop crying on command, thank you very much. This Crouch fellow also seemed to ignore that ridiculous theory and settled for humming in thought.  
  
“How strange.”  
  
On that much, they could agree. It was all very strange.

***

The next few months went by very slowly, from his baby perspective  
  
Admittedly, his perspective was limited to how often he ate and shat and slept. Not exactly a foolproof method of keeping track of time, but it would have to do.  
  
Eventually, he did get more of his bodily functions in order.  
  
His sight matured soon enough. That was nice, sort of. His vision was limited to a few feet, but any improvement was welcome. With the newfound power of eyesight, the first thing he confirmed was that he was now very small.  
  
That much was obvious, but having a visual confirmation was nice.  
  
Anyone he had met so far spoke to him with very telling childish babble-talk. They praised him for being such a cute baby, which he found horribly insulting. He was _not_ cute, he was handsome. Those people could go fuck themselves. For another, they called him a baby.  
  
Big red flag, that.  
  
Finally, everyone he met was very tall.  
  
Or perhaps they were of average height. It was hard to tell from his crib.  
  
Oh right, the crib. Also a big hint.  
  
You know what, there were just a _lot_ of hints, okay?  
  
From the crib, he quickly got used to several regular visitors.  
  
There was the man who spoke to him first, who claimed to be his father. A severe man with a dark toothbrush mustache and a stern face. He also had a stern voice, a stern way of standing, and a stern way of existing in general. So he was a pretty chill dude.  
  
While his presence was consistent, their interactions were not. His visits were brief, and the man paid him no mind after their first meeting, in favor of the bedridden woman.  
  
Ah yes, the woman. His _mother_. Fair features with short blond hair and blue eyes. Her pregnancy had left her thin and unnaturally pale. She was nice enough, if a bit grabby. Seeing as he was an infant, he could understand. He didn’t at all mind the warmth. It was so easy to be cold in a body this small.  
  
Then there was his brother.  
  
The young man introduced himself as Bartemius, or Barty. If it was possible, he looked even more chill than their father. He had their mother’s straw hair and freckles, and their father’s everything else. Initially, he seemed distant, but his eyes lit up when the child in front of him gurgled, and his brother was immediately taken with him.  
  
He visited sporadically, but always for hours at a time. Not when their father was around, though. Those two made a point of never being in the same room.  
  
He got the distinct impression that they weren’t very close.  
  
The same could not be said for his brother and mother. When they weren’t cooing and doting on him, they were speaking in hushed, but loving tones to each other. It was super adorable, and Art’s own chest warmed at the sight of it. Perhaps this new life wouldn’t be all that bad.  
  
That’s right, his name was _Art_ now. Art Crouch. That was it. Period.  
  
Well, _technically_ his full name was Artorius Caecilius Crouch, first of his name. King of the andals, rhoynar, and the first men, lord of the seven kingdoms, and protector of the realm.  
  
Because apparently their family was of some relevant social standing, and he was expected to have a big dumb name.  
  
But by golly, he would start going by Art as soon as he could talk.  
  
It was surprisingly easy to get on board with the whole reincarnation thing. Assuming that this _was_ his new life. It _might_ be hell, heaven, or some sort of purgatory, but he reasoned that the less time spent dwelling on the why and how, the fewer headaches he would have.  
  
With that line of thinking nipped in the bud, Art could focus on making the most of things. He had a loving brother, a mother who cared for him, and a father who, despite being cold and stern and a total jerk, worked hard and seemed to love his wife.  
  
There were worse families he could be born into, he reasoned.

***

Most of a year went by before Art grudgingly admitted that he might have been too optimistic.  
  
How out of character for him.  
  
To be fair, things had been alright for a time. He and his mother were released from the hospital and had finally gone home to the Crouch family estate. An older three-story brick house that had a washed-out red color, a spotty tile roof, and a stone courtyard. It had some ten acres of trees and overgrown vegetation surrounding it.  
  
A bit worse for wear, yet surprisingly homey-looking.  
  
Even more surprising, was that they had a servant. A weird fantasy looking imp, of all things. She was introduced as Winky.  
  
Art calmly accepted this as more evidence of him having gone mad.  
  
Unsurprisingly, Winky was taller than he was. She had pale, leathery skin, bat-like ears, a crooked nose, and she wore a toga around the house.  
  
Togas were baller, so she was okay in his book.  
  
She became very emotional upon seeing him, blubbering and crying and swearing up and down to attend to his every need. Art wondered if she had any outlets besides indentured servitude.  
  
It didn’t seem like it.  
  
She ought to try soap operas. Maybe some slice of life anime.  
  
Barty still came by, but it wasn’t nearly as often, and his appearance grew more haggard and disheveled with each visit. The light in his brown eyes had gone fierce.  
  
Lately, he did not shy away from arguing with their father, with ever-increasing volume and emotion.  
  
They spoke of a war, a dark lord, and blood purity. Genocide, politics, torture, and the morality of fighting fire with fire in a national crisis.  
  
Intense subject matter, and a fountain of new information.  
  
It was around this point when Art came to the tentative conclusion that his new fake life was taking place in the Harry Potter universe. A leap in logic? Maybe, but it was the best guess he had at the moment. Now, this brought up an interesting point. If this _was_ magical Britain, then what do?  
  
Realistically, he couldn’t do much.  
  
For you see, Art had never seen the movies, and Art had never read the books. Oh no, those were full of _devilry_ and _paganism._ But Tolkien and Lewis were _fine_ , because they had good Christian symbolism or some garbage. Thanks _mom_.  
  
A bit embarrassing, in retrospect.  
  
If he put his mind to it, all Art could really remember were memes, quotes, a few character names, and maybe some iconic plot twists. Internet cultural osmosis was a hell of a thing. It was a weird set of circumstances, but a lack of foreknowledge was a lack of foreknowledge. Nothing for it.  
  
With a shrug, he vowed to wash his hands of all of that nonsense. Easier for everyone involved, but mostly less work for him.  
  
It was all just too complicated to bother with.  
  
So naturally, his life saw fit to complicate itself, the bastard.  
  
His mother, whose health had never really fully recovered, was now looking more sickly and unsteady by the day. His father claimed it was only stress, and that it would soon pass.  
  
Being a pessimist at heart, Art maintained a healthy amount of skepticism.  
  
They spent most of their time together. She was a depressing presence, but she _was_ his mother, so there wasn’t much he could say. Literally. Speech was hard. Anyway, he had the privilege of watching her slowly get worse, which sucked.  
  
Then she was sad all the time, which also sucked. But unlike her sickness, sadness _was_ contagious.  
  
With this in mind, Art grudgingly went out of his way to make her happier.  
  
Calling her ‘mum’ was enough for a couple weeks of peace. He decided it was worth the work of getting his tongue to cooperate.  
  
He allowed her to bear witness to his first steps, as well. A moment of pride, trivial as it might seem. Crawling was not something he would miss. For the first time in a while, she laughed without care.  
  
She was still getting worse. Quickly and consistently.  
  
Winky found him sitting outside her room as she dozed, a carefully blank look on his face. She was quick to assure him that everything was fine, and that the Mistress would get better in no time.  
  
Art grinned at her with his shiny new teeth, and laughed like a child who didn’t yet understand loss. Not as hard as it sounded.  
  
One cold October evening, Barty pulled him close and told him he would be gone for a while. He said there was something he had to do and to take good care of their mother. It was just over a week before his first birthday, and Barty promised he would be home in time, and that everything would be better soon.  
  
For lack of a better idea, Art hugged him. “Bye, Bart.”  
  
A fairly childish nickname, but it seemed appropriate.  
  
Barty left the house fighting tears, but with resolve burning in his eyes.  
  
Shivering, and not just because of the cold autumn air, Art tried to reign his emotions in. He had to work against his instincts, and hope it would work out for the best. Today was the thirtieth. November ninth was just around the corner. He started counting the days after that. There was no need to panic, none at all.  
  
At least there was Halloween to look forward to.

***

The dark lord was defeated, and Art thought that it had made for a good Halloween celebration. He had never seen his father smile before. Granted, he was gone moments later, a department head’s work was never done and all that, but it was a memorable sight. His parents had actually kissed in front of him. Art barely noticed the enchanted sweets in all the excitement.  
  
Three days later his brother was sentenced to life in Azkaban, by his father.  
  
That sure turned the mood on its head.  
  
For all that they disagreed on Barty, Art had never heard his parents yell so loudly, had never imagined that his mother knew such words, or that his father possessed such a fiery temper. Entire chairs had to be replaced after that, not to mention the dishes.  
  
Winky flinched at each crash, no doubt eager to clean it up, before ushering Art away to his room.  
  
After such an _exciting_ few days, Art’s first birthday ended up being very subdued. How could it not, with what had happened?  
  
To the surprise of no one, his father had found a reason to stay late at work once more, and Art knew he wouldn’t be home at all that night.  
  
Winky was silent and respectful of the mood, head bowed, no doubt grieving in her own way. She loved the family and hated to see them apart. Art knew this because she repeated it several times a day.  
  
His mother’s eyes were red and puffy, from tears shed, and even she could barely summon the energy to smile. Art couldn’t hold it against her. It was a dour mood, and who gave a single fuck about a baby's first birthday? No one, least of all the baby.  
  
When Winky finally put him to bed, he was awake for hours.  
  
Not for the first time, he wondered why he was being made to experience this. Not for the last time, he wished things would be better, and yet was unable to believe that they could be.  
  
It seemed strange and cruel, this whole situation. Wasn’t reincarnation supposed to be a good thing?  
  
Purgatory, then. It made the most sense.

***

By comparison, the next year was almost normal.  
  
The house was quiet.  
  
His mother looked dead already. Corpse-like, sitting in her chair, occasionally turning her head, stretching her lips in a strange facsimile of a smile.  
  
It had gotten to the point where Art was barely allowed to see her. When they were together, she was wrapped in many layers of blankets and robes. She looked solemn, and her eyes were empty. When she spoke, she talked about Barty, and what a wonderful boy he was, and how he could never do the things they said. Or she argued with his father, about the sentencing. It was an old argument, and they both knew the steps.  
  
She talked about him when no one was around at all, or even when Art was right in front of her. Tragic and depressing. But Art would be lying if he said he didn’t feel resentful about it.  
  
His father threw himself into his work, even more so than before. Apparently he had been demoted, but you wouldn’t guess it by looking at his schedule. Rare were the days when Art saw him around the house, or indeed saw him at all.  
  
When Art was at the house, Winky was his only companion. Her speech ticks were grating, but she was nice, and she let him walk around the grounds when the weather allowed for it.  
  
It wasn’t all horrible. Art did get to leave, on occasion.  
  
The house was all gloom and doom, _all_ the time. Ironically enough, it was his father who decided he should be taken out and about. Oftentimes this just ended with Art shunted off to an unlucky underling.  
  
At least it broke the monotony of learning how to speak and walk.  
  
The most interesting trips occurred when his father wanted him to be properly socialized. On those days he was forced to play with kids his age.  
  
Well, sort of his age. To be honest, Art was about nineteen months past caring about the reincarnation thing. Existentialism aside, he was mostly dying of boredom. Art wouldn’t pretend these snot-nosed toddlers were his equals, and he turned his nose up at the lot of them. The little blonde kid seemed equally snobbish, so he could at least appreciate his taste.  
  
But if Art was destined for a life of magic and adventure, he would have to get used to dealing with dumb kids at some point.  
  
That is, he would at least pretend to get used to it.  
  
The reprieve had to end at some point, however.  
  
That point arrived nearly a year after his brother was sent to Azkaban. If he wondered why his second birthday felt more like a funeral, he only had to wait a day to find out why.

***

Art stood near the front door, watching his father carefully ease his mother into her coat. His father's face was taut, lips set in a thin line. While his mother took slow, labored breaths, unused to being on her feet after so long spent bedridden.  
  
It was sudden, and he couldn’t help but wonder what was going on.  
  
“Winky!” his father barked, startling Art back into the moment. The house-elf popped beside him in the next instant, handing him his bowler hat.  
  
“Yes Master Crouch! Winky is being here,” she piped up brightly, in much better spirits than anyone else. It sounded very hollow, but Art wasn’t about to call her out on it.  
  
“See to it that Artorius is fed and put to bed by seven. We will not be back tonight.”  
  
“Oh yes, sir. Winky is making sure that Master Art is eating and sleeping-”  
  
“Where?” Art interrupted, eyes dipping to the floor when his father turned his way.  
  
After a rather pregnant pause, he replied stiffly. “Hospital.”  
  
Art looked up. It was about damn time.  
  
At his father’s clipped response, his mum gave the man a harsh look, before her face fell and she wiped her eyes. Shrugging out of his hold and taking a few shaky steps over to Art, she carefully went down on one knee, and held her arms out.  
  
He hesitated, before walking into the embrace.  
  
One arm holding him tight, her other hand ruffling his blond hair.  
  
“Art, my boy,” she whispered, so quiet only he could hear. “This may not make sense right now, but I know that you’ll remember… You have to. Just take care of your brother, Art. Be a good boy, and look after him and your father. Promise me that.” Holding both sides of his head, she brought his face in front of her own and looked him in the eye.  
  
Art didn’t want to look at her, but he did.  
  
“Promise me, Art. Please.”  
  
“I… I promise,” he mumbled back, not quite sure what she was talking about.  
  
Her serious expression was swept away by a smile. Her first genuine one in a while. It was like she had been afraid he would flinch away and refuse. He resented that implication. The temptation had been fleeting, at best.  
  
She leaned forward and planted a kiss on his forehead.  
  
“I love you so much, Art.”  
  
“I love you, mum.”  
  
It was easy enough to say, yet he wondered if he meant it.  
  
His father chose that moment to clear his throat to get their attention, putting away his silver pocket watch with a resigned sigh, “Cecilia, I believe we have an appointment.”  
  
Taking a few seconds to stand, his mother nodded to herself, eyes hardening with resolve.  
  
Barty had that same look, when Art had last seen him.  
  
“Yes, I believe we do.”  
  
His parents walked outside, where a fresh coat of snow covered the grounds, crunching softly beneath their boots. They came to the center of the courtyard and stopped, preparing to apparate.  
  
He waited for some sort of goodbye. A smile or wave would be enough.  
  
With a crack of thunder, they were gone.

***

Dead, the both of them.  
  
The stress of Azkaban was too much for Barty.  
  
Their mother was too far gone to recover.  
  
 _Was_. It was weird, referring to them in the past tense.  
  
Cecilia Crouch née Bones was buried on the estate, under a wispy old elm tree.  
  
A private, closed casket funeral was held. Apart from him and his father, his mother’s family also attended. Those who had survived the war, that is. It was quiet and sad, as funerals tended to be. No doubt there had been a lot of funerals lately. Some token words were exchanged, but Art’s father was not an earnest man, and Art himself was two.  
  
Neither cried or said anything to the other.  
  
The body of Bartemius Crouch Junior was buried by the guards of Azkaban. There was no service or even a mention of one. Shockingly, his father called in sick and locked himself in his study for a whole day. But again, he said nothing to Art. Art said nothing back. Because there was nothing he could bring himself to say, and no one he could trust to say it to. Also, again, only two years old.  
  
To think that he had started his new life with such optimism.  
  
Absolutely hilarious.  
  
A deep breath. Deeper than he had managed when he arrived.  
  
This wasn’t the end. Only two years had gone by. Not much, not in the grand scheme of things. Life could improve, hypothetically.  
  
His father was stern, strict. No room for failure in his mind. But for better or worse, he paid attention to Art once there was no one else, and now? Now there was no one else.  
  
Besides Winky, that is.  
  
Sometimes in those rare quiet moments, he would tell himself to look on the bright side.  
  
At least the worst of it had passed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the dourness of this chapter puts you off, just know that there will be a tonal transition until the end of chapter 4. Hence me posting them together, letting you know what the story is.  
> Spoiler, it doesn't stay grim and angsty at all.  
> Also spoiler, the protagonist is intentionally abrasive. Sometimes it's too much, I try to balance it, but that's the character.


	2. Chapter Two

After a slow, steady breath, Art knocked three times.  
  
“Enter.”  
  
Opening the door to his father’s study, Art stepped inside and closed it behind him, before walking over to his desk. With hands at his side, posture rigid, and expression blank, he waited.  
  
His father looked him over, from shoelace to haircut, eyes harsh and measuring as ever.  
  
Art bit his tongue to keep from fidgeting.  
  
Briefly taking in his appearance, Art was silently pleased to find bags under his eyes, and precious few wrinkles in his otherwise immaculate work robes. Breathing deeply through his nose, he took in the distinct smell of fire whiskey. Someone had obviously been under a lot of stress.  
  
Art found himself unsurprised, and completely lacking in sympathy.  
  
It spoke to how out of sorts the man was that he looked away from Art first. He brought his fist up and cleared his throat, yet there was still a long silence before he attempted to say anything.  
  
“As you asked… I have spoken at length with the board of governors, and the headmaster,” he said, turning his gaze to the twilight outside his window. “It is done. All of the arrangements have been made.”  
  
Fantastic news. Art might have smiled, were he in better company. Alone would be best.  
  
“Tomorrow morning, an associate of mine will arrive by floo. You will be escorted to Diagon Alley. To Ollivander’s, where you will purchase a suitable wand and nothing else."  
  
There it was. It was corny as hell, but his heart may have skipped a beat. More than he dared to hope for. Taking a second to collect his thoughts, he quietly asked, “My robes and supplies?”  
  
His father’s jaw tensed when he spoke out of turn, so used to being in control of everything, before he shook his head. “They have already been taken care of. Malkin already has your measurements, and your school supplies do not require your presence.”  
  
Looking back at Art, his father’s scowl faltered. He opened his mouth slightly as if wanting to say something else. Something more. An explanation, an excuse, or even an apology. Even a lie would be worth partial credit. Anything. Art waited for him to say it.  
  
Then the moment passed, and his brown eyes turned cold once more. It was a close thing, but Art kept his own expression schooled and impassive, as he once again embraced that total lack of shock.  
  
“They were _not_ happy with this, Artorius. You will be scrutinized. Your age will be held against you, _as it should_ ,” he ground out, before pausing and unclenching his fist. “No matter. You are a Crouch, and you will _not_ allow the years of instruction you’ve received to go to waste.”  
  
“Of course, father,” Art drawled, in a rare moment of cheek, no doubt stemming from his good mood. “I can appreciate an opportunity. It must have been so _very_ hard for you, breaking the rules like this for your family. You have my utmost gratitude.”  
  
The man stiffened.  
  
“Leave me,” he commanded, waving his hand in dismissal.  
  
Reigning in the urge to push more of his buttons, Art left the room.

***

Their mutual animosity aside, his father was true to his word. The very next day he found himself walking down Diagon Alley alongside some nameless assistant, a rotund man with quite a lot of wrinkles and not a lot of hair.  
  
Art hummed a quiet tune as they walked, his eyes darting around at the shops. Many times he had walked this way, being escorted to this wandwork instructor or that language tutor. Yet it was only now that he recognized all of the potential around him. All of it, that much closer to his reach.  
  
The thought of it made him almost giddy.  
  
Finally, they came to their destination, a lopsided building with crusted gold writing on the archway and ornate looking wands displayed in the window. Art pushed open the door and stepped inside.  
  
The shelves and walls were lined with thousands of marked boxes. Many grouped together by color, though not all. Art could only begin to guess as to how they were organized. He drank all of it in, eyes gleaming in anticipation. One would be his to wield, and do totally rad stuff with.  
  
A thin old man came lumbering from the back of the store, pushing white hair out of his face. This would be Ollivander, then. “What’s this? Another student, so close to the start of term?” He frowned, quirking his head at Art. “Oh? Not late, then. Rather, it seems you’re here _early_ , Mr. Crouch. I trust there’s a good reason.”  
  
Art blinked, taking a slight step back. “How do you know me?”  
  
He chuckled lightly. “I’ve been selling wands since the days of your grandfather, Demetrius Crouch. You resemble him, but you’re the spitting image of your mother.”  
  
Scowling, Art did not reply. He looked over at his escort and jerked his head.  
  
“No cause for concern, good sir,” the man said, chortling as he reached into his coat. “I have here a document from his father. Perfectly alright. Went through all the appropriate channels, or so I’m told.”  
  
“Indeed?” Ollivander took the offered letter, cracking the seal and swiftly inspecting the contents with a raised eyebrow. “Quite unorthodox.”  
  
Art paid the exchange no mind, eyes still roving the shelves.  
  
Perhaps noticing his impatience, the man shrugged. “Not my place to question the ‘appropriate channels’, I suppose. Now then,” he cleared his throat, drawing Art’s attention back to him. “Which would be your wand arm, boy?”  
  
“Left,” he said at once, holding out his arm.  
  
“Truly? Unlike either of your parents.” The man wandered off, mumbling to himself as a tape measure floated around Art at varying lengths, finally snapping shut as he returned with one of the boxes. “Try this on for size. Hawthorn and unicorn hair, twelve inches. Your father had one like it, though his was slightly less-”  
  
Art wasn’t sure he had even touched it before the wand was yanked away. Ollivander hummed and walked to a different shelf, “Certainly not. Perhaps a good ebony and phoenix feather, eleven and a half inches. springy, but still-”  
  
One of the shelves almost toppled before the wand was gently laid on a table beside the other. “Not good, not good at all,” he said, smiling widely in spite of the damage to his store. Another shelf this time, before he returned with a glint in his eye. “Not like your brother either, I see.”  
  
He scowled once more, though the man didn’t seem to notice.  
  
“Perhaps a different approach. Pine and dragon heartstring, nine inches, a bit temperamental. Try it out, would you?”  
  
Grabbing the offered wand, Art yelped as a shock ran down his arm and immediately dropped it. Ollivander caught it, quicker than Art could see, before setting it on the table while rubbing his chin.  
  
“Not quite, and _yet_ … Give this one here a go. _Beech_ and dragon heartstring, ten and a quarter inches, very supple. Go on then, give it a wave.”  
  
Art narrowed his eyes at the wand. When it seemed like it wouldn’t try to kill him or get taken from him right away, he reached out and grabbed it.  
  
A torrent of cold flew up his arm, and into his chest. He shivered, but it felt good and _right_ , in a way that only magic could. He tightened his grip to keep from dropping this one. Ignoring Ollivander’s stupid smug face, he waved it around a bit. A burst of blue sparks sprang across the room. Art allowed himself a grin.  
  
“I’ll take it.”  
  
“As you say,” he chuckled, walking over to the counter to box up the duds. “I rather expected it would take longer, given your age. Alas, seems that one was waiting for you. About time, I say. The old thing has been collecting dust for oh… Some twenty years now.”  
  
Art nodded, only half paying attention.  
  
“That’ll be seven galleons then.”  
  
This time he only briefly glanced at his escort. The man grumbled to himself as he paid Ollivander. “Right then, come along now young sir.”  
  
As they left the building Art looked back. “Thanks very much for this,” he called, offering a short wave with his empty hand.  
  
“You’re quite welcome, Mr. Crouch. I trust you’ll use it well.”  
  
Of that, he had no doubt.

***

Another day, another faceless ministry employee, Art mused. He spared his new babysitter a look. This time he was a she, and she was lithe and blond. No doubt she had lost a bet or something, as she looked rather put out at having to escort someone else’s child to platform nine and three quarters.  
  
Oh yes, the time had finally come. Off to Hogwarts and away from his father.  
  
The latter by itself was cause enough for celebration. But both at once?  
  
A truly wondrous day.  
  
When the two came to the pillar between the two platforms, she impatiently gestured towards it. “Off you go then. Try not to freeze up like a ninny, else you’re sure to end up in a heap.”  
  
Art rolled his eyes. “Right, why would that scare me?”  
  
She snorted, then looked at her watch. “Better be quick about it.”  
  
“Someplace to be?”  
  
“Not really, but you do. Trains gonna be off here soon.”  
  
“Ah,” he trailed off, giving her a parting wave. “Thanks, I guess.”  
  
“Make no mention of it. Honestly, please don’t.”  
  
With nothing else to say, he pushed his cart forward and ran at the doorway.  
  
It _was_ a doorway. That expectation was enough to get through with no issues.  
  
“That was anticlimactic,” he muttered, slowing down and turning into the magical station.  
  
There were mostly just parents mulling about, Art being among the last to arrive. A bit awkward, but he pressed on. Navigating through the crowd of tall people towards the train, he had just about made it when he was accosted by a pale man with long blond hair. He carried a cane of all things, which he proceeded to prod Art’s chest with.  
  
“Good morning, Mr. Malfoy,” Art said brightly, doing a short bow against the cane. “Dropping off Draco, I presume?”  
  
“Indeed,” the man responded, eyeing him up and down. “You’re Crouch’s youngest, correct? I believe you’ve crossed paths with Draco, once or twice.”  
  
Art suppressed a laugh. Once or twice, _right_.  
  
“That’s right! Artorius Crouch, sir, but people call me Art.”  
  
Lucius hummed, “Tell me, Artorius.” Damn. “What got it into old Barty’s head that you ought to attend Hogwarts this year? Your entry made quite the stir amongst the board members.”  
  
Oh, right. Lucius was _on_ the board of governors. This conversation was starting to make a lot more sense. Just how many feathers had his father ruffled to pull this off? It couldn’t have been that bad, could it?  
  
Art’s polite smile strained as the silence crept on.  
  
“I don’t pretend to know my great father’s mind, sir.”  
  
“Yet you are somewhat _young_. Is he not concerned for your safety?”  
  
At this point, his smile was almost gone entirely. Instead, he focused even more on not laughing. His father, concerned for his safety? Art’s arm itched, and he fidgeted as he resisted the urge to scratch it.  
  
“My father has faith in my abilities, sir,” Art said, using his best customer service voice.  
  
He raised a finely groomed, yet clearly unconvinced eyebrow. “Of course.”  
  
Yes, he definitely bought that.  
  
Clearly the man was fishing for answers. Answers Art had no intention of giving. What a stroke of luck it was then, that the last call for the train sounded out, and saved him from having to be very rude.  
  
Art tried not to look too relieved. “That’ll be my cue, sir. Good morning!”  
  
Eager to be rid of the man, he ran to the train and boarded.  
  
With great effort and a silent curse or two, Art heaved his trunk into the train. Marching down the carriage, he was intent on finding an empty compartment. There was bound to be one around here somewhere.

***

“I knew we should have left earlier,” he cursed. Almost an hour into the trip and he was still scouting for a room. Dropping his trunk, he massaged his back with care. Perhaps he was being the tiniest bit silly. Surely he was mature enough to stomach sitting around and socializing with a bunch of eleven-year-olds for the whole trip.  
  
He laughed into his fist, which turned into a cough.  
  
That was when a tall ginger boy marched up from another carriage. With a polished badge shining on his robes and an annoyed look on his face, he smelled like trouble.  
  
“Haven’t found a compartment yet, firstie?”  
  
Art scratched at his neck. “Well… I mean I was just headed to the loo.”  
  
“You’ve got your trunk still,” he said, crossing his arms.  
  
Art looked around, before stepping closer and whispering, “I didn’t trust those other kids, if you catch my meaning.”  
  
He didn’t look impressed. “I can’t have you dragging your luggage around to the loo and back. Leave the trunk in your compartment. If someone knicks your things, just tell me. I am a prefect, so you can rely on me to make it right.”  
  
“Fantastic, I’ll just go and find a room then.”  
  
He frowned. “Hang on. I thought you were just coming from one.”  
  
“An empty one, I mean.”  
  
“There are no empty ones. Just get back to your old one already.”  
  
“But I don’t have an old one.”  
  
The ginger prefect groaned. “You _just said_ you didn’t trust the kids in your compartment.”  
  
“No,” Art said with a scoff, “ _I_ _said_ I didn’t trust those other kids. That’s all.”  
  
“Which kids then?”  
  
He shrugged. “All of them?”  
  
The boy clenched his jaw and took a moment to calm himself.  
  
Fortunately, or unfortunately, someone interrupted before Art could rile him up any further. A fellow first year, from her height. She had really, really big brown hair, and a determined look about her. But really, the hair. What was even the point of magic, if hair like that was allowed to exist?  
  
“Excuse me,” she said, and Art cringed away from the sound. Was _his_ voice that high-pitched? Christ, he hoped not. “Have either of you seen a toad? A boy named Neville lost his.”  
  
“No toads here,” he supplied, feeling rather helpful. “Have you seen an empty compartment? I’ve lost mine.”  
  
She narrowed her eyes at him, perhaps deciding if he was teasing, which he absolutely was not.  
  
“Of course not, don’t be daft.”  
  
Yeesh. Tough crowd.  
  
“Don’t worry, I’m a prefect, so I’ll ask around for this toad,” the ginger said as he straightened his tie, apparently miffed at being forgotten for ten seconds.  
  
“I suppose that will have to do. Thank you.” She nodded and turned to leave.  
  
“Wait,” the boy said, sounding far too excited for Art’s comfort. “Do you have any room in your compartment? Room for just one more, maybe?”  
  
The girl’s face soured, glancing at Art critically before responding, “It is just Neville and I, right now.”  
  
Art took a few quick steps back, forcing a laugh. “I’m sure it’s too much of a bother… I can just—”  
  
“Enough already,” he snapped, glaring at Art. “I’m a prefect. It’s my job to patrol the train, and right now you dragging your luggage about is congesting the walkway.”  
  
Art groaned in defeat, “ _Fine_ …” He grabbed his trunk and turned to the girl. “Lead the way, I guess.”  
  
She frowned and walked back down the carriage, him lazily trailing behind.  
  
“The nerve of that guy, am I right?” Art stage whispered, still in earshot of the ginger. “It’s like he thinks he’s a prefect or something.”  
  
“I heard that!”  
  
Art snickered to himself.  
  
“You shouldn’t antagonize the prefects,” the girl scolded.  
  
“Bah.” He waved her off. “What can he do, I’m not even in a house yet.”  
  
“It doesn’t matter,” she insisted, “he’ll remember your face and be sure to take points away, or find some reason to give you detention, and what will your housemates think of you getting in trouble so early on? That’s right, they’ll be ever so annoyed, I know _I_ would be if you were in my house.” She wrinkled her nose at him. “Oh now I’ve gone and jinxed it, haven’t I? If we _do_ end up in the same house, you had better not turn into a troublemaker and lose us points. I plan on working hard, and you had best do the same. What’s your name anyway? I’m Hermione Granger.”  
  
Art squinted at her, still trying to parse through her rant. Was she an important character or something? Was that why she had so much to say? Or was she just like this all the time? Her name sounded familiar. Pondering this, it took him a hot minute to realize which of her questions he was actually expected to answer.  
  
“Art,” he said, still very uncertain. “Art Crouch.”  
  
Her eyes lit up at his surname. “Really? You’re part of the so-called ‘sacred twenty-eight’, then? Neville’s one of them as well. There’s a lot about those in _Ancient and Noble Pureblood Dynasties_ , which I only half skimmed, as it all looked like rather dodgy information. Did you know your father was head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement during the war with You-Know-Who? I read that in—”  
  
“ _Modern Magical History,_ yes.” Art’s gaze drifted to the ceiling. “I’m familiar.”  
  
“Right, of course you would be, I expect you know all about the magical world. I only just learned this past summer, since I’m a muggleborn you see. I was delighted to learn about it all. With so many fascinating new subjects out there, I’ve been awfully excited for the start of term.”  
  
She finally stopped talking for a second, opening the door to her compartment and taking a peek inside. “Here we are. You can drop your trunk off just in here. Seems Neville is still out looking.”  
  
“Looking for what?”  
  
She tilted her head at him. “His toad, of course. That’s what I was doing out and about in the first place.”  
  
With a slow nod, he hauled his trunk inside and collapsed into a seat, sighing in satisfaction. What a trial that had been, finding a suitable compartment. Now it was time to rest, relax, and watch the picturesque countryside fly by.  
  
A loud coughing noise brought his attention back to Hermione, who was now tapping her foot with an air of impatience. “Yes?” he asked, with a growing sense of dread.  
  
“Come along then, we ought to get a move on.”  
  
He scrunched his face up. “Do I _have_ _to_?”  
  
She crossed her arms. “Well _no_. I just thought you might want to help, instead of lazing around by yourself, no use to anyone.”  
  
Art did his best to sink even deeper into his seat. That was _exactly_ what he wanted to do. Couldn’t she see that? Couldn’t she understand? But it was too late. By asking, she had turned this into a cursed situation. If he did refuse to help, they would come back and make the journey uncomfortable with glares and silent accusations. It would ruin the whole experience.  
  
It was all just too great a risk to take.  
  
He groaned and stood up, dragging his feet out of the compartment and falling into step beside Hermione. She didn’t seem to properly appreciate the sacrifice he was making.  
  
“Don’t be so dramatic,” she said, “it won’t take long.”  
  
“Famous last words,” he grumbled.

***

  
Thirty minutes of fruitless searching were quick to prove him right. He was even on his own again, after Hermione declared that they should split up to cover more ground.  
  
Bored and annoyed, Art wrenched open yet another compartment door and stuck his head inside to glare at the two occupants, lounging around in comfort and eating loads of sweets. Bunch of spoiled tossers.  
  
“Have either of you seen a toad, frog, or any sort of amphibious creature? Some boy whose name I can’t be bothered to remember lost one, the prat.”  
  
The two boys flinched at his abrupt entrance, or maybe it was his attitude.  
  
The gangly redhead was the first to collect himself, giving a frustrated groan. “Why’s everyone gone barmy for this toad? You’re the third person to ask after it. I swear that Hermione girl just left, and I thought she’d _never_ leave.”  
  
“She did, did she?”  
  
“It was actually about an hour ago,” said the other one, a boy with glasses and an absolute _mess_ of brown hair. Honestly, was magic just background dressing to these people?  
  
“I _told her_ to tell me where she’d already checked, but _noooo._ ” Art pounded his fist on the wall. “This could have been avoided.”  
  
“Calm down, mate. I’m sure it’ll turn up soon enough,” said the ginger, sharing a clueless shrug with his friend. “I’d check with my older brother. Stuck up git that he is, he takes his prefect job real serious like.”  
  
Art narrowed his eyes, remembering the other ginger he met earlier. “That was your brother? No way am I talking to him again. It’s half his fault I’m even in this mess.”  
  
The boy laughed, “So you met Percy? Bad first impression of the family, that. Rest of us Weasley’s aren’t so bad. I’m Ron, by the way. Ron Weasley,” he whispered the next bit, gesturing to his friend who just looked happy to be there. “And this here’s _Harry Potter_ , if you can believe it.”  
  
Art blinked somewhat owlishly, looking the boy up and down.  
  
Harry waved at him, shrinking back a little under the scrutiny.  
  
This was the protagonist? This little spit of a kid?  
  
“So you’re the one? That— uh, the guy-who-didn’t-die?”  
  
“Boy-who-lived, apparently,” Harry said with a friendly grin, “I’m only just hearing about it all, myself.”  
  
“ _Weird_ ,” Art whispered to himself, “not sure what I was expecting, really. I’m Art, by the way,” he added as an afterthought.  
  
“What’s weird, then?” Harry asked, sounding defensive.  
  
“Oh, well I mean it’s just typical, isn’t it? The heroic hero of myth and legend being the little guy. Scrappy underdog type of situation.”  
  
“Little, am I?” Harry looked him up and down. “You’re one to talk.”  
  
Ouch, he had spikes.  
  
“Sorry about that, bad example,” he said with an awkward shrug, “all I meant was you’re different, then how I expected. That’s on me. Gotta reexamine my personal biases, is all.”  
  
“Right…” Ron said, looking at his friend and back to Art with a frown. “Well, like I said Art, ain’t no toad here. You might want to catch up with that other girl and… Regroup or somethin’, I dunno.”  
  
Art knew an invitation to scram when he heard one. Cursing under his breath, he nodded and stepped out, closing the door behind him.  
  
“That went well,” he muttered, trudging off to find and complain at Hermione.  
  
After thirty _more_ minutes of completely different, yet equally fruitless searching, Art was starting to contemplate homicide. He had no idea where Hermione was, and no idea how to get back to their compartment. That was when a nervous, round-faced boy walked up to him, a question obviously on his lips.  
  
“Right, me first,” Art said, cutting him off. “Have you seen an annoying little girl with absolutely insane hair running around here? Or maybe a toad?”  
  
The boy brightened immediately. “You lost yours as well? They c-can be so slippery. This girl I met, Hermione, she’s been helping me ask around for mine, but we haven’t had any luck.”  
  
Art’s face darkened. “ _You…_ Is your name Neville?”  
  
“That’s right, Neville Longbottom. What’s yo- ack!” The boy cried out as Art grabbed the front of his shirt and dragged him close, almost nose to nose.  
  
“The name’s Crouch. Artorius Crouch,” he snarled, enjoying how Neville’s eyes widened, and how he paled in the face of such skillful intimidation. “Now you listen here, _Longbottom_. I’ve been walking around this bloody train for an hour, looking for your toad. I’m tired, hungry, and I’ve just about run out of patience. So when we find this toad of yours, _if_ we find it, you’d best never let it out of your sight again. Or I will make sure you regret it. Are we clear?”  
  
The boy’s head nodded forward and stayed bowed.  
  
He gave him a shake. “Longbottom, I said _are we clear_?”  
  
Neville suddenly became a lot heavier.  
  
“Longbottom? You feeling alright?” Art asked, grunting with effort as the boy went completely limp in his grip.  
  
“Oh come on, don’t faint on me!”  
  
As gently as he could with his small size, Art laid Neville down on the floor. Kneeling down and lightly slapping his face a bit, he sighed, “Wake up Longbottom, it wasn’t that bad.”  
  
Art frowned, scratching his cheek. Why had he reacted so strongly to a few classic scare tactics? He had never met this kid before, even if the name sounded familiar. Perhaps the boy was just easily startled?  
  
But then, there was also the way he reacted when Art had introduced himself.  
  
He was definitely missing something. Was it the name? It had to be. He was a pureblood, so maybe they had met before. Or their parents had. Art was sure he would have remembered meeting such a pansy, but maybe not.  
  
“Longbottom? Longbottom. _Long-bottom_ … Longbottom. Longbottom…”  
  
Art paused, then slapped his forehead with a violent groan.  
  
“Oh, for _fuck's sake_.”


	3. Chapter Three

“What have you done to him? Go on, out with it,” Hermione demanded, sounding very cross.

Art shook his head sadly. “It was a freak accident, I’m telling you. He looked at something behind me and fainted. Luckily I was quick enough to catch him, so it could have been much worse. But nobody could have changed what happened.”  
  
“You were right there!”  
  
“Nobody,” he insisted.  
  
“Honestly, imagine how much trouble you’d be in if a prefect had seen you. You’re lucky I came across you before any of them did.”  
  
“Oh yeah, I’m feeling _very_ lucky right about now.”  
  
She rolled her eyes and sat down across from him, next to the unconscious Neville. “Did you at least find his toad?”  
  
“Absolutely not,” he said, “may the blasted thing rot in the darkest corner of hell. It was all a complete waste of time. I resent you for dragging me into that, by the way.”  
  
“I did _not_ drag you into it.”  
  
“Guilted me into it, then.”  
  
With that witty retort, they settled into a comfortable silence. Hermione folded her arms and made a point of looking anywhere except at Art. After a moment of consideration, Art decided he could live with that. Pulling his legs onto the seat, he leaned back against the wall with a contented sigh. Now that all of _that_ was behind him, he could finally relax.  
  
“You shouldn’t sit with your feet up like that,” she said, clearly just looking for something to nag him about. Did this girl ever stop talking?  
  
“I’ll sit how I like.”  
  
“You’ll muck up the upholstery.”  
  
Apparently not.  
  
“Cry me a river, why don’t you.”  
  
“Why do you have to be so _rude_?”  
  
“Years of pent up angst and snark. Why do you have to be so annoying?”  
  
Was that mean? Shit, that felt kind of mean.  
  
This wasn’t fair at all. Art was too out of practice playing nice with kids, at least without supervision. Draco didn’t count since they were equally mean to each other. Gods, but he needed a rewind button for situations like this.  
  
The silence was far less comfortable after that.  
  
Damn it all. This was supposed to be a fresh start. Off to the fun and wacky adventures, away from the silence and constant walking on eggshells.  
  
Art vowed to make amends.  
  
“Sorry. Didn’t mean it,” he said.  
  
There, done.  
  
She mumbled something about him being a prat, and he marked the apology as a middling success. He still felt bad, but his guilt abated enough that he was able to relax against the wall once more.  
  
Neville awoke with a start, leaping to his feet.  
  
“What, where am I? Who am I?! Oh.” Blinking a few times, he froze when he saw Art glaring at him.  
  
“Neville, it’s alright. Art and I brought you back after you fell unconscious.” Hermione was quick to console him, swatting his back in a manner probably meant to be reassuring.  
  
“I was… Yeah, okay,” he said, slowly taking his seat again.  
  
“Do you remember what happened? Art said you saw something awful and fainted dead away.” She sounded as though she didn’t believe it.  
  
Art sniffed. The nerve of some people.  
  
Neville opened his mouth.  
  
Art made a quick slicing motion across his throat.  
  
Neville closed his mouth.  
  
“Th-that’s what happened… I just, you know, just get so f-frightened sometimes… Haha,” he laughed, looking away and adjusting his collar.  
  
Hermione narrowed her eyes at Art. “Right...”  
  
Great, she bought it.  
  
Neville cleared his throat, “So, uh… What house do you reckon you’ll be in?”  
  
An admirable attempt to change the subject. Art approved.  
  
Hermione perked up at that. “Oh, I’ve heard that Gryffindor is by far the best one. That was Headmaster Dumbledore’s house, you know, so it must have high standards. My next choice is Ravenclaw, but I can’t see myself in either of the other two. How about you, Neville?”  
  
“My gran says I ought to be a Gryffindor like my da… Probably be a Hufflepuff though,” he said with a sad voice, before glancing at Art.  
  
“Yeah, I can see that.” Art nodded thoughtfully.  
  
“ _Art!_ Don’t say that.”  
  
“What? It’s a fine house,” he said, holding up his hands in defense. “Don’t be ashamed, Neville. Hufflepuff is just as good as the others. It’s just different.”  
  
Neville looked somewhat reassured.  
  
“Myself, I could probably get into whichever house I wanted. Seeing as I’m wise, brave, cunning, and whatever Hufflepuffs are.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I might just go for the snake one. The evil one for dark wizards, or something.”  
  
“Wh-why’s that?” Neville said, blood draining from his face once more.  
  
Art got a faraway look in his eyes and smiled. “My father will hate it.”  
  
Neither of them were sure how to respond to that.

***

Eventually, the train arrived at Hogsmeade station.  
  
It was a miserable journey, in the end. Not relaxing at all. His two traveling companions were entirely to blame. They kept on talking with each other, and occasionally with him, ignoring his demands for peace and quiet. He was eager to be rid of them.  
  
So when they were taken to the docks, he did his best to find a boat with literally anyone else. Unfortunately, he was too slow, and the great bumbling behemoth known as Haggard had to tell him to stop griping and get on the boat with them already.  
  
Hermione crossed her arms and turned away from him. Neville just flushed and looked down at his shoes. It looked like his attempt to ditch them wasn’t as subtle as he thought. Whatever.  
  
At least the boat ride was quiet.  
  
When Hogwarts came into view, there were many suitably impressed sounds from all the children. It looked like a fairy tale, with a large keep and lots of pointed towers, the many brightly lit windows shining up against the evening sky. Art could admit that it was all very aesthetically pleasing, if not all that practical. No murder holes, no drawbridge, and not even a single trebuchet. Magic probably made up the difference, but it was definitely more Cambridge than Camelot.  
  
“It’s only a model…” he said wistfully. His two companions shot him confused looks.  
  
Brilliant. Not only was he surrounded by kids; he was surrounded by kids who didn’t understand his uninspired references. This might be tougher than he anticipated.  
  
They disembarked and started on their way to the keep.  
  
“I hate stairs,” he said, climbing another one. “They’re coarse, rough, irritating… And they get everywhere.”  
  
“Stop— complaining,” gasped Hermione.  
  
Art made sure to keep complaining until they reached the castle.  
  
“All the firs’ years here? You there, still got tha’ toad of yers?”  
  
Neville stuttered in the affirmative, noticing Art’s glare.  
  
Wait, Neville had found his toad? Since when? And with not even a ‘thank you’ for all the time Art had wasted looking for the stupid thing. What an ungrateful little tosser. Never again, Art vowed.  
  
“Good thing, too. Lovely creature.” Haggard pounded on the door to the entrance hall.  
  
It swung open to reveal an older woman in green robes, with a pointed hat and a stony expression.  
  
“Got the kids all ‘ere, Professor McGonagall,” Haggard said.  
  
“Thank you, Hagrid,” she said scottishly, ”I’ll take them from here.”  
  
Then ‘Hagrid’ lumbered away, no doubt searching for someone else to bother.  
  
The Professor talked about the houses and how each was respectable, about points and the house cup, and a bunch of other important information. Art stood at rigid attention, nodding with everyone else, and completely zoning out otherwise.  
  
Once she had gone into the great hall, the children around him started whispering in excitement and wonder.  
  
“What’s this sorting ceremony?”  
  
“My brother says we have to fight a troll—”  
  
“This foe is beyond any of you, run!”  
  
“I might just die if I’m in Hufflepuff, don’t you—”  
  
“I’m hungry,” Art sighed, patting his stomach.  
  
“Aren’t you excited, Art?” said Hermione.  
  
He waved her off. “Yes yes, very excited. But mostly hungry.”  
  
“Art? _Artorius_ , is that you?” A very blond boy walked up, followed by two much larger boys who were _not_ blond. He was sneering all friendly-like, as he was known to. “Didn’t expect to see you here. You’re still ten, aren’t you? Didn’t have another birthday while I wasn’t looking?”  
  
“Hello there, Draco. Nice to see you too, Draco. How’s the family, Draco?” Art sighed. “Yes, in his infinite wisdom, my honorable father pulled some strings and yada yada, now I’m here.”  
  
Some not so excited whispers broke out at that. Good. Better to build a reputation as a child prodigy sooner, rather than later.  
  
“Sounds like a lot of strings,” he said, and Art thought he sounded quite jealous. “Just had to get in to see the boy-who-lived?”  
  
“Oh right, that guy,” Art said, looking around briefly before shrugging. “Met him, he seems alright. Mostly here to eat and learn spells and stuff.”  
  
He snorted and held his hand out. “Typical.”  
  
With a put upon sigh, Art shook his hand respectfully.  
  
Once Draco was gone, Hermione rounded on him with a scandalized look. “You’re only _ten_? But that’s against the rules! They clearly state that you have to be eleven by the admission deadline. I read that younger children aren’t mature enough to have sufficient control of their magic.” She paused, before indulging her curiosity, “however did you manage?”  
  
“I’m very mature,” he said defensively.  
  
“Legally, I meant.”  
  
He shrugged again, which was apparently ‘not a proper answer’.  
  
“Bit odd, that,” Ron said, squinting at Art. “Blimey, you must be the youngest person in the whole school!”  
  
“Brilliant.” He shrugged for the third time. Why did anyone care?  
  
Hold up. Did this mean that he was both the youngest _and_ the oldest student in Hogwarts?  
  
He blinked.  
  
Weird. Unless there was a ghost student around.  
  
“How is it that you know Malfoy?” Harry said, glaring at the blond’s retreating form.  
  
“Pureblood families.” Art was tired of shrugging, so he did some jazz hands.  
  
Harry frowned, but Ron nodded at him in understanding.  
  
Ah, a kindred spirit who Art didn’t remember ever hanging out with. He shook Ron’s hand as well, as a show of solidarity.  
  
Hermione watched the exchange thoughtfully. “What’s that about, then?”  
  
“Pureblood secret handshake.”  
  
“It was just a normal handshake, though,” Harry said.  
  
“That’s what I keep telling Draco, but he won't leave it alone.” He shook his head. “Ron gets it.”  
  
Ron didn’t get it, but Art had already moved on and wasn’t about to explain.  
  
The professor returned, and everyone finally stopped talking.  
  
“Form a line, please,” she said, once silence was had. “Now, follow me.”  
  
The double doors swung open and they all marched single-file into the Great Hall. Art’s first thought was that there were far too many candles. His second thought was that there were far too many people. Then his third thought was that the ceiling was far too open looking.  
  
Most of all, he was still hungry.  
  
Why was the hat singing? Nevermind its lovely baritone voice, it was still weird. Art didn’t remember anything about a hat. Let alone a hat that sang.  
  
To be fair, Art didn’t know all that much, to begin with.  
  
It was less of an issue as an infant when his greatest concerns were learning to walk, and watching his mother slowly wither away and die. But now that he was finally at Hogwarts, it could make things weird if he fucked up the story. But then, it was already a little fucked, just by virtue of him being here at all.  
  
He thanked the gods he wasn’t an important character, like Harry. He shivered. No thank you. All he had to do was stick to the background, an innocent ten year old named—  
  
“Artorius Crouch!”  
  
He jerked back to the present, noticing the extra-stern glare Professor what’s-her-face was sending him. Right, she must have called him once already. Blast, now everyone knew his full name. Mission failed, we’ll get ‘em next time.  
  
Someone shoved him forward.  
  
Ignoring the snickering easily enough, Art walked up the steps and took a seat on the stool, eyes staring blankly ahead.  
  
The hat came down a second later.  
  
“What’s this, then? Quite the odd assortment of memories, you have here. _”_  
  
Art blinked. Oh, right. He did have some of those. Should he be worried?  
  
“Don’t get too riled up, this stays between us. I’m just a hat, after all.”  
  
That made sense, sort of. This was already a significant breach of privacy. The least they could do was guarantee some sort of headwear-headwearer confidentiality.  
  
“Well, I could go into the school's privacy policy, but I’ve quite forgotten it by now. What I do remember is people. One of four types, to be exact. You’re a rather brave sort, with what you’ve endured, and I think you’ll fit rather nicely in—”  
  
No. Not. Nope. Gryffindor was where all the main characters were, right? That wouldn’t do at all. If he could be in the snake one, that would be just dandy.  
  
“Oh-no no. I don’t think so. Cunning and ambition are not your strengths, nor are they your interests. You would do poorly in Salazar’s house. No, you’re much more of a—”  
  
“ _No,_ ” Art hissed under his breath, “ _Come on, just put me in the evil people one._ ”  
  
 _“Not_ Slytherin. That might be the worst match I’ve ever heard of.”  
  
“ _I don’t care, pretty please put me in Slytherin, I’ll be_ so _happy—_ ”  
  
 _“_ I very much doubt it. Trust me, boy, you’ll be much better off in—”  
  
“ _My father will be so mad, PLEASE give me Slytherin._ ”  
  
The hat insisted, “This is a bad idea.”  
  
“ _I can learn to be cunning and ambitious, I promise._ ”  
  
“Doubtful, but I’m done trying to persuade you of your best interests. _SLYTHERIN!_ ”  
  
Art cheered and did several fist pumps. Things were starting to look up.

***

By the time the feast was over and the Slytherin first years were escorted down into the dungeons, Art’s good mood had all but evaporated. Did these kids ever stop blathering?  
  
No off switch, no volume control. Nothing.  
  
He made a point of glaring at anyone who tried talking to him. Or looking at him. Or being near him. Damn kids.  
  
Draco was well adapted to his methods, however. New ones would be needed after they went through the mandatory research and development phase. Then human trials could commence.  
  
When the Slytherin head of house arrived and everyone fell quiet, Art could have kissed the man. He wouldn’t, of course. Seeing as he was ten, and the man was slimy and mean looking.  
  
The man they called Professor Snape eyed the children, looking annoyed by their very presence. Art could feel a sense of kinship brewing already.  
  
“ _Congratulations,_ ” he said, managing to sound both contemptful and bored as he delivered his monologue. “You have been given the great privilege of belonging to Salazar’s own house of cunning and ambition. Do try and live up to the expectations of your predecessors, your peers, and me, your head of house. There shall be no tolerance for fools and failures here. Keep your grades up, and your petty differences _private_. For outside of this common room, you stand as one.”  
  
As he ran through the routine, he scornfully glared at each of them in turn. His inspection only paused when it came to Art, who shuffled his feet awkwardly.  
  
“Some of you may come here with preconceived notions of self-importance. Let me assure you, no special allowances will be made for those too simple or _childish_ to keep pace.”  
  
Art felt singled out for some reason.  
  
“Lastly, if you are caught breaking any rules, help may come, but the consequences within these walls will be severe. You are of Slytherin now. Getting caught is for lesser houses.”  
  
Some more words were said, about points and potions and schedules, but Art was completely checked out by that point. They were eventually split up by gender and escorted to their dorm. Once they got there, he promptly flopped face-first onto his bed.  
  
“Hey, I said I wanted the bed closest to the door!”  
  
Art let out a muffled reply.  
  
“I did so, you just weren’t listening.”  
  
Art stopped listening.  
  
Draco tried to convince him to move a few more times. Thankfully, Art was an honorary black belt in the ancient and noble art of ignoring people until they went away.  
  
Then he fell asleep, filled with good vibes and excitement for his classes.


	4. Chapter Four

Art ate breakfast alone.

He cleared his throat, glaring at Draco, and hoping he would take a hint.

“I wager you begged your way into Slytherin. No way you would be here otherwise.”

Correction. Art _tried_ to eat breakfast alone.

He was just too darn charming and popular for his own good.

“Don’t be ridiculous. The hat couldn’t have sorted me faster.”

Draco snorted, “Come on then, where were you headed? Hufflepuff? You’d fit right in there.”

He hummed, not quite disagreeing.

“The _how_ of it doesn’t matter, dear Draco. As for the _why_ … Well, it was all worth it in the end,” he said, gesturing grandly to the open letter before him.

His groupie shook his head at the letter. “Such disrespect. _My_ father would never—”

“I’ve never been able to annoy him with such impunity,” Art cackled, ignoring him completely. “This _power…_ It’s intoxicating.”

Of course, his father was less than pleased with his sorting.

‘ _Despicable son of mine,  
I warned you not to be a slimy Slytherin dark wizard and you have defied me for the last time.  
Know this, you are hereby forbidden from making any friends with those evil eleven-year-olds, or else I shall be very cross with you.  
With love and adoration, your father._’

At least that was how his dramatic reading to Draco went.

For a moment he wondered how the man had found out so quickly.

Impossible to say, really. Spies of the enemy were everywhere. He eyed his surroundings, wondering how many traitors were in his midst. Then his stomach gurgled, and he got over it.

His father’s command to stay away from his Slytherin peers was heartbreaking, to be sure. He made sure to let Draco know as much, that it wasn’t personal.

Draco sneered and turned his nose up at him, so they were cool.

After a moment, Draco squinted at him. “Did you forget to pack a hairbrush? You’re usually better put together… I would offer to let you borrow mine, but it’s _mine_ and you can’t use it.”

Feeling self-conscious for a split second, Art ran a hand through his straw-colored hair and scoffed. “It’s a style and a choice. This is merely the first of many steps in my adolescent rebellion.”

“You’re just being lazy.”

“Shut up, no I’m not.”

There _was_ an opportunity to be had here. From the looks of things, he was sort of at odds with all other houses automatically, being a Slytherin and all.

That situation, combined with the letter from his father, gave him a ready-made excuse to not make friends with any annoying kids. In all likelihood, that would end up being all of them.

As hope blossomed, Art was excited to start his life at school.

Oh, to be left to his own devices at long last.

For Art, Hogwarts was a whole new world, with a hundred thousand things to see. He was like a shooting star, he’d come so far, and he couldn’t go back to where he used to be.

“I miss watching movies,” he said with a sigh.

***

  
Professor Flitwick was a very excitable person. When he called Harry Potter’s name on the roll call, he practically squealed with joy, almost falling over and hurting himself in the process. While lecturing, he would often start speaking very quickly and his voice would climb very high.  
  
It was super adorable, as well as distracting.  
  
Once the introduction lecture was done, he set the students off to work on a very simple spell. Very simple. So Art narrowed his eyes in suspicion as the professor stopped in front of him. He looked as if he had something to say.  
  
“Yes, professor?”  
  
“Oh, right,” he said, flustered. “I’m told you’re only ten, Mr. Crouch. Is this true?”  
  
“Yep.”  
  
Professor Flitwick nodded, probably expecting the answer. “Most children under eleven aren’t able to properly control their magics, you see.” He gestured to Art. “Don’t let me stop you, I’m merely observing. For your safety, and my own curiosity,” he added with a giggle.  
  
Right, then. A test with doubt placed on him from the start. Fantastic.  
  
Thankfully, Art already knew this spell. That is to say he knew how it worked, mechanically speaking. The first year Charms textbook was an old friend at this point, among many others. His father demanded nothing less than rote memorization, to be regurgitated for a good grade at the appropriate time.  
  
Art readied himself with a breath, not willing to get caught up in the attention.  
  
Movement. Speech. Intent. Three keys of spellcasting. The movement was negligible in this case. Actually, there was no movement. The word was Lumos. Easy enough to pronounce. The intent… What was he trying to accomplish? A simple, tangible goal for him to focus on. What would a successful casting look like? He pictured it in his mind's eye.  
  
He moved his wand fluidly, the _intent_ blocking out all other thoughts.  
  
“ _Lumos_ ,” Art said, squinting as the tip of his wand lit up. Jesus, that was bright.  
  
“Good! Very good! See everyone, how Mr. Crouch says it? With many spells, _pronunciation_ can be the difference between failure and success. Remember, it’s _LOO-mos._ Five points to Slytherin, well done!” Professor Flitwick clapped, and Art waited for further instructions.  
  
As Flitwick wandered away, chirping out tips to different students, he frowned.  
  
Was that it?  
  
Art looked around as his classmates attempted the spell, occasionally sending him dark looks.  
  
Was this supposed to be challenging?  
  
Maybe it was beginner’s luck. He tried again.  
  
“ _Lumos_.”  
  
Or he was surrounded by idiots.  
  
More accurately, it was that he was surrounded by kids.  
  
He looked around the classroom again. The rest of his classmates were only achieving bright sparks, as they likely did when they first bought their wands. Across the room, he frowned as that one girl with the big hair managed to do it a few seconds later. She didn’t seem to have a problem with it, though Art decided that his was definitely more impressive.  
  
He tried to remember their one-sided conversation on the train. Wasn’t she a huge bookworm? He thought she would have prepared way in advance for these classes.  
  
But then, she was a muggleborn.  
  
Perhaps this sort of curriculum _was_ intended to be a challenge. Other students were having enough trouble for it to make sense. The theory checked out. Art did have something of an unfair advantage, after all.  
  
A few more moments of pondering this left him bored, and no longer interested in the answer.  
  
He raised his hand.  
  
“Problem, Mr. Crouch?”  
  
Art slouched back with a sigh. “No, sir. I was just wondering if we had any homework?”  
  
Professor Flitwick raised his eyebrows. “Looking to get a headstart on it, then? Very good, very good. Glad to see you’re on top of things.”  
  
His gaze slowly drifted up to the ceiling. “Years of tutoring, sir.”  
  
“Knowing your father? I’m not surprised,” he giggled to himself, stroking his beard. “As it so happens, there is some work for you to take—”  
  
The class erupted into groans.  
  
“Quiet now, please. There will always be more than just the practicals to work at. However, you’ll be glad to know that Charms is one of the least demanding in terms of written homework.”  
  
That wasn’t very reassuring.  
  
“Now then, I would like six inches on how you are able to cast this spell. What goes through your mind, when you say the words? What do you think is stopping you from succeeding, or making a brighter light? After you do this, go on to read chapter two, in _Magical Theory_. It covers this very topic. Please avoid copying the book. Know that I have also gone over it recently.”  
  
Not seeing the point in casting the spell again, Art pulled out some parchment and his quill. He took a moment to remember his old notes, before plagiarizing them without a second thought.  
  
Maybe other classes would be more interesting.

***

In Transfiguration, they had a lecture filled with maths of the magical variety.  
  
Oh, right. That was only after the professor turned into a _motherfucking cat_.  
  
Disgusting. Art shuddered at the mere thought of it. Why anyone would want to turn into an animal was beyond him.  
  
After that, they were tasked with turning a matchstick into a needle. A tangible introductory goal, to show them how difficult the class was, but that it was still far from impossible.  
  
Now, if Art was completely honest, Charms had left him somewhat big-headed. He was self-aware like that. Naturally, what was true of that class was true here, in that he had been subjected to prior instruction in the past.  
  
Did it help…? _Yes._ With about ten thousand asterisks attached.  
  
Was it metal? Almost, but not. Did it have a silvery sheen? Sure, if you squinted. Was he frustrated at his lack of progress? Not really. He was still the most advanced, even though it still wasn’t very good at all.  
  
But all the same, it was at this point that the Professor asked him if he was cheating.  
  
Much to Art’s silent indignation.  
  
She didn’t dare say it outright, of course. Nor did she allude to it, or even narrow her eyes at him in distrust. Art figured she was too experienced for that sort of slip up. Yet he was paranoid enough to see past her very convincing facade of impressed professor.  
  
“That’s right, professor. This was all me.”  
  
To prove it, he switched it back to a match, then again to a vaguely needly appearance.  
  
Not a hint of struggle. His smugness had now returned.  
  
That would show her.  
  
She watched him do it with raised eyebrows. “Your wandwork and pronunciation are very precise, Mr. Crouch. Particularly for a first-year, even ignoring your age. May I ask what your secret is?”  
  
Right, that made sense. It all came back to his age, didn’t it? His father had warned him about this, but Art wasn’t about to admit he was right.  
  
“My father expects great things from me, professor,” Art said blandly, “I’ve had lots of practical instructions. Personal tutors on all the fundamentals, getting me ready for school. That sort of thing.”  
  
She nodded, not looking very surprised. “I half expected as much. If I recall correctly, you’re brother—” she trailed off, her face softening as she looked away. Art decided he didn’t like her. It was a knee-jerk reaction, but Art was an impulsive sort of person.  
  
“Very well done. Take two points for Slytherin.”  
  
For some reason, he spent the rest of class in a fouler mood. He didn’t even bother comparing himself to the rest of the class for that easy ego boost.  
  
After some more self-plagiarism, he finished the homework. Then it was off to lunch.

***

By the time Potions came along, Art was bored and ready for a challenge. So when Professor Snape started another one of his pre-rehearsed speeches, full of gravitas, dramatic pauses, and flourishes of his cloak, he nearly fell asleep at his table.  
  
It was entertaining enough, to be fair.  
  
If Snape was born a muggle, Art was sure he would be a huge theatre nerd.  
  
After the professor finished insulting their intelligence and antagonizing the protagonist, he spent the next hour and a half lecturing them on safety procedures and proper care of tools and ingredients. Very relevant stuff for those just starting in the art of potion-making. It was all helpful information, actually. This Snape guy knew what he was doing, even if he was a douche.  
  
Art slowly allowed his eyes to glaze over. Once again, he slowly copied out his old notes onto a new piece of parchment.  
  
Potions had _some_ potential to be interesting, at least. It was almost like cooking. The major differences mostly involved how much more lethal a screw up was, the strange ingredients, and how everything smelled like garbage.  
  
Art hated cooking. But he knew how to follow directions, and that would have to do.

***

Against his hopes, his first day was a sign of the times. Days went by slowly. All of his other classes proved to be just as basic. Astronomy, Herbology, History of Magic… Art had thought about breaking down into tears during History of Magic. Apparently the professor was an actual ghost, and the curriculum over the years had remained… _Rigid_. There was literally nothing new to learn there.  
  
Even Defense Against the Dark Arts was a chore.  
  
It wasn’t Quirrell's fault. Not entirely. Okay, it was partly his fault. Gods damn it all, what kind of teacher had trouble with public speaking? Wasn’t that a requirement for jobs like this? It ought to be.  
  
Teaching standards sure had fallen since his previous life in the future.  
  
The textbook was slightly more interesting, he admitted. But even though he hadn’t read these exact words _verbatim_ , the concepts and lessons were already embedded in his mind after years of _tutoring_. Blasted tutoring.  
  
Theory. Wandwork. Potions. Language. History. Pronunciation. Years of private instruction, repetition, memorization, and muscle memory. Something he had once thought magical, made mundane.  
  
It was actually sort of impressive when he thought about it in a meta way.  
  
No doubt this was all part of his father’s secret plan to make his time at magic wizard school as boring and monotonous as possible. Art’s revenge would be sweet, and frequently fantasized about while he tried to get the stench of garlic out of his robes again.  
  
That settled it. He hated Defense class.  
  
Still, he reasoned with himself, these courses were for _children_. Children who barely knew which end of their wand to hold. That they covered the basics was to be expected, and he cursed himself for not predicting as much.  
  
It would get better, eventually.  
  
Probably.

***

An eternity later, it was Thursday, and Art’s mood had only worsened.  
  
With a slouch and a yawn, he dragged his feet behind his housemates as they made their way outside onto the grounds. It was a beautiful day, with clear skies and lots of sun. The Gryffindors were already there, chattering excitedly. No doubt they were all eager to start flying lessons.  
  
He scowled. It felt like he was doing that a lot lately.  
  
Once everyone was present, Madam Hooch told everyone to shut up.  
  
“Good afternoon, class.”  
  
Correction, she _should have_ told everyone to shut up.  
  
Art might have been projecting, but he didn’t care.  
  
“Good afternoon, Madam Hooch,” he parroted with the rest of the sheeple.  
  
“Right, enough of that. Go on and step up to your brooms.”  
  
At least she didn’t have a lecture prepared. Art had half-expected her to pull out a thick tome on the rules and regulations of flying different types of brooms in different parts of the world, at different speed limits. But it seemed that the gods were merciful indeed, and this wasn’t a muggle drivers ed class.  
  
“Stick out your right hand over your broom,” she called out, walking between the two groups. “And say _up!_ ”  
  
“Up,” he said dully, barely blinking as it flew up into his hand.  
  
Of course.  
  
“Go on now, with feeling!”  
  
Oh yes, _lots_ of feeling.  
  
Once everyone managed to get their brooms up, they mounted them. Madam Hooch then walked up and down the rows, correcting everyone’s grip and posture.  
  
“Higher up on the broom, Mr. Crouch. It’s meant for larger children.”  
  
For once, Art welcomed the correction. Breath of fresh air, that.  
  
They spent most of the lesson making sure nobody would die. The last stretch of the class was more casual, and it turned into a sort of free period.  
  
With Madam Hooch above, surveying all like a hawk, the students were allowed to glide across the grounds. Students let out whoops of joy as they sped around, laughing and yelling with their friends. Not too high, not too quick, but everyone seemed to be enjoying it.  
  
“I don’t think I much care for flying,” he decided, coming to a stop in the air. “Maybe I’m dead inside.”  
  
It wasn’t particularly difficult, nor was it all that interesting. The novelty was quick to wear off, it seemed.  
  
“Or maybe,” he said thoughtfully, noticing that Hooch was distracted by Draco showcasing too much of his charming personality. “ _Maybe_ I need to try something more extreme. Like a flip, or a dive towards the ground at great speed. Really get my heart racing.”  
  
Before he could test this out, he heard a lot of anxious muttering from behind him. Turning about, he saw that one girl with the hair— _Hermione_! _That_ was her name. Anyway, she inched along in jerky little movements. With a posture as rigid as possible, she held her broom in a death grip.  
  
“Hello there,” he said, waving at her. “Slow going?”  
  
“Look,” she hissed, eyes not straying from her hands, “I don’t mean to be rude, but this isn’t as _easy_ as it looks, so I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t distract me.”  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
His silence only lasted a moment, before he got bored and decided to ignore her request. “So, you ended up in Gryffindor, then?”  
  
“Figured that out, did you?” she said, “Well done, five points to Slytherin.”  
  
Art snorted.  
  
“Now if you _don’t mind_ , I need to concentrate. So go away, or— or I’ll tell Madam Hooch on you.”  
  
Looking around, he tried to spot other familiar faces. Harry and Ron were there, swooping around the grounds together. Draco was taunting them, now from a distance thanks to Hooch, with his two henchmen. Their names were not important to Art. Neville was— not there.  
  
“Where’s Neville at?” he said, turning back to Hermione.  
  
“His house had their lesson yesterday,” she said quietly, “with the Ravenclaws. I heard Lavender say that Hannah said he broke his wrist.”  
  
He blinked. “Gryffindor gets two classes?”  
  
Hermione finally looked up from her broom to glare daggers at him. “Were you even _at_ the sorting?” she said, her voice climbing higher, “I certainly hope so, they only called your name _three times_. You should know then, that Neville was sorted into _Hufflepuff_.”  
  
“Huh,” he said, “I did _not_ know that.”  
  
She grumbled something rude under her breath.  
  
“Weren’t the two of you friends or something? That’s rough,” Art said, tilting his head at her. “Still, at least you have Harry and Ron. Are you guys friends yet? I think you’re supposed to be friends with them, in case you aren’t already.”  
  
Art patted himself on the back for his subtle Slytherin machinations. Gryffindor was the hero's house. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were in Gryffindor, and they were the only characters whose names were all that important. Ipso facto reducto reparo, they were the protagonists. It was his best theory so far.  
  
Hermione frowned. “Not really? I mean, I talked to them briefly on the train, and they’re a decent enough sort, I suppose. But I’ve barely spoken with either of them since.”  
  
“What about your roommates?” came Art’s next guess.  
  
“They’re not— I mean, I don’t—” Hermione sputtered, going red. “I don’t have to explain myself to _you_.”  
  
“ _Righhht_. Well, if you want some unsolicited advice from a rival house with the characteristics of cunning and ambition, then you ought to go hang out with them, or those two kids. In the meantime, good luck with that no friends thing. Take it from me, or don’t. Whichever works.”  
  
She didn’t reply. Just slowly, ever so slowly flying away from him. Art took a moment to stroke his chin and hum thoughtfully. Now, he could have been mistaken, but his gut was telling him that something maybe wasn’t totally right with the world. A profound leap in logic told him Neville was to blame.  
  
He spent the next few minutes trying to figure it out.  
  
“Oh well.” He shrugged as the lesson ended without incident.  
  
It wasn’t like Neville was important or anything.

***

Later in the day saw Art bracing himself, as he saw Neville walking towards him in the corridor. He was alone, occasionally flinching and looking around. No doubt the Hufflepuff had a bone to pick and was trying to spot his target. It was time to put a stop to his misplaced anger. Maybe aim it at someone else. Like Draco. Or the sorting hat.  
  
“Honestly, Neville, you can’t keep blaming me for not making it into Gryffindor, it’ll just leave you daydreaming about what could have been. Best to let it go and move on with your life.”  
  
Neville stopped, looking like he’d only just noticed Art was there. His eyes went wide, and he shook his head quickly. “I d-didn’t hold it against you to begin with. On the train, I pr-predicted it, ‘member?”  
  
Art strained to recall the conversation. He couldn’t remember Neville saying anything. “I don’t think so. Were we in the same compartment?”  
  
He nodded, looking as if he were waiting for a punchline. “Yeah, we talked about houses… I ended up asking the hat for it. Hufflepuff, that is.”  
  
“Oh well,” Art said with a shrug, “you know, in retrospect, I wouldn’t blame you if you _did_ hold it against me. Since you might have made it into Gryffindor if you didn’t faint…”  
  
Somehow, he looked even more lost.  
  
“Which occurred due to reasons completely beyond my control, which is why you should just keep on blaming yourself,” Art quickly tacked on. That was a close call. He was just too smooth for his own good.  
  
Neville eventually frowned, hugging his books to his chest. “I don’t need you making fun of me too… Malfoy has that sort of thing covered, thanks.”  
  
Ah, man. Now he felt bad, kind of. Be best to apologize.  
  
“Sorry, Neville. Don’t let it get you down, Draco can be a bit on the classically Slytherin side, if you know what I mean. If you’re picking up what I’m putting down.” He placed a hand on Neville’s shoulder. “Also, not my fault. Just for the record.”  
  
“Artorius, what are you doing with Neville?” A familiar Hufflepuff girl with a long braid stomped up. She glared, clearly not pleased to see him. Why were all these kids so aggressive? Was this just because he was a Slytherin? Talk about prejudice.  
  
“Call me Art,” he said, glaring right back at her. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times. This is why we don’t get along.”  
  
She snorted without humor. “Believe me, there are more reasons than that.”  
  
Neville looked between them, bewildered. “Do you know each other?”  
  
“We’re cousins,” she said.  
  
“Once removed,” Art added unnecessarily.  
  
“Hush, you know what I meant. Now, what are you bothering him about?”  
  
He raised his hands placatingly. “I was just congratulating Neville on being a ‘puff. Think he’ll be real happy with you kids.” That might even be true, he didn’t know the guy.  
  
“I don’t buy that for a second,” she said, stepping up and jabbing a finger into his chest. “You leave him alone. He doesn’t need _you_ of all people picking on him. Besides, he _is_ perfectly happy with us, right Neville?”  
  
Neville, who looked very awkward, opened his mouth to respond. “Well, I—”  
  
“See? Now go away, _Artorius_.”  
  
By the gods, that hat wasn’t joking around when it sang about Hufflepuff’s being total dickheads, or however that stupid song went.  
  
“ _Fine,_ ” he said cooly, “I can see where I’m not wanted. Take care, Neville. You know how it is. Better things to do, more _welcoming_ people to talk to, and all those fun things.” With a friendly wave, he continued down the corridor. “See you in class, _Sharon_.”  
  
“My name is Susan,” the Hufflepuff yelled after him, “I know you know it, you prat!”  
  
Damn, she called his bluff. Art made like a tree and ran away.

***

“Oi, Art, you coming with us, or what?”  
  
Lazily dragging his eyes away from his book, Art brought his attention to Draco with a squint. “What’s going on?”  
  
He grinned, gesturing to the girl and two larger boys beside him, “Like she was saying, we’re off to find some Gryffindors and call them nasty names, maybe a Hufflepuff if we can catch one alone. You in?”  
  
Neville’s pathetic face, flooded with blubbery tears as he begged for mercy, appeared in his head. Clearing his throat to buy time, Art scratched his chin and looked to the side. “As fun as that sounds, I’ll have to decline. Trying to keep up on this homework. Really piles up, you know?”  
  
“Please,” the girl scoffed, tossing her hair back. “You finish most everything before class ends. Everyone knows it.”  
  
Fine, it wasn’t his best excuse.  
  
He rushed for a better one. “That’s just late work from other classes.”  
  
When in doubt, double down.  
  
She didn’t look convinced.  
  
Figures, everyone knew how amazing and smart he was by now.  
  
“We aren’t giving you grief over it,” Draco cut in, smirking in amusement. “It’d only be embarrassing if it wasn’t so fun to watch the Gryffindors get in such a tizzy about it. To think the best of their lot is some _muggleborn_. I’m embarrassed _for_ them _,_ to be honest.”  
  
They all shared in a round of evil cackling.  
  
Wait, these were kids. All they did was giggle.  
  
Art didn’t know how to giggle, so instead he sat there awkwardly.  
  
Cha cha real smooth, idiot.  
  
“Right, have fun with that. Back to the books for me.”  
  
With that, he moved his unfocused eyes back to the DADA textbook he had given up trying to reread.  
  
“Don’t let us stop you,” Draco said with a snort. He jerked his head and started walking off with his crew. “At any rate, we’ll be back if we can’t find anyone. I still need to open up the floor, take suggestions on how I can best humiliate Potter. That reminds me— Crabbe! You need to get better at taking down the minutes, or I’m going to make someone else do it. I mean it this time! I swear—”  
  
Art really needed to find somewhere else to hang out.

***

It might have been premature, but Art wasn’t quite as enamored with Hogwarts as he’d hoped he would be. Not by a longshot.  
  
The lessons were boring. The professors were boring, aside from Snape’s flair for the dramatic. He again wondered if any of them had proper teaching credentials. His classmates were prats. His housemates were prats. His roommates were _definitely_ prats. Draco was sort of a prat, moreso to other people, and was likely to become a bigger one over time. Then the older kids were just taller prats with jinxes he didn’t know how to counter.  
  
Basically, everyone was a prat.  
  
The girl in front of him stood up and slammed her book shut.  
  
“You’re such a _prat_.”  
  
Well, that was uncalled for.  
  
She stormed away before he could deliver his cutting retort.  
  
“Yeah, you’d better run,” he mumbled, flipping to the next page.  
  
“Trouble in snakeville, eh Crouch?” someone said, mocking him.  
  
Looking over, he saw Ron snickering next to Harry, who looked very amused.  
  
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said honestly.  
  
Ron pointed to where that one girl had retreated. “Thought Slytherins stuck together, or some rubbish like that.”  
  
“You’re thinking of Hufflepuffs,” Art said, before frowning. “Wait, she was a Slytherin?”  
  
They looked at him in bewilderment. “That was Tracey,” Harry spoke very slowly, “Tracey Davis… She sits next to you in Charms class.”  
  
He squinted back at them.  
  
“She’s your Potions partner as well, I think,” Ron added.  
  
His eyes widened. “Her name is Tracey?”  
  
Ron guffawed, only for Harry to clap a hand over his mouth when Madam Pince stepped around a corner and shushed them loudly.  
  
“You’ve been partnered with her since the start of term,” Harry whispered, “how could you not know?”  
  
He scratched his cheek idly. “It never came up.”  
  
Ron glanced back at the corner before asking, “What’ve you been calling her, then?”  
  
“Besides ‘hey you’? Nothing, really.”  
  
Well, he had called her Daphne once or twice, when he was sure he had remembered her name. That had been extremely short-lived. At any rate, now he would have to wait for Snape to bully someone else into being his partner.  
  
“Guess you’ll just have to work by yourself,” Harry said with a shrug, “why not ask a friend to partner with you?”  
  
“I can take the hit to my grade. No worries.”  
  
Ron stuck his hands in his pockets, glaring at Art. “Please. You’ll get better marks than us just by being a Slytherin.”  
  
“Also,” Harry said, “you dodged the question.”  
  
Art hummed and did not meet Harry’s eyes. “That doesn’t sound like me.”  
  
Ron nudged his friend, looking around warily. “Harry, mate, let’s shove off.”  
  
“What for?”  
  
“Can you imagine if we get seen getting friendly with a Slytherin?” he asked, going paler by the second. Quite a feat for a ginger. “The mere thought alone… If Fred and George see us, I reckon I’d never hear the end of it.”  
  
“Good point, let's get out of here.”  
  
The two of them peeked around the corner, making sure the coast was clear, before sneaking off to go do whatever it is kids their age did with their free time. Probably trade Pokemon cards, or play marbles. Kick the can, maybe. What year was this?  
  
He waved after them. “Later fellas.”

***

Art gave his new potions partner a handshake, speaking with forced cheer, “I’m Art. I hope we can work well together.”  
  
“Millicent,” she spat out.  
  
“Nice to meet you, Millicent. Name sounds like Maleficent, anyone tell you that before? Probably not. Cool name, nice and menacing.”  
  
Her glare abated somewhat, which he took as a good sign.  
  
“Could do with a nickname though, with all those syllables. Don’t fret, all the cool kids have ‘em. Something like Millie, or Cent. How about _Militia_?”  
  
No proper response, just another glare. Great.  
  
“I’ll let you sleep on it. Nicknames are no easy decision, take it from me. Imagine if someone called me Arty, or—” he said, shuddering violently. “Merlin forbid, Tori? Actually, that’s not bad.”  
  
She grunted. “Better than Millie.”  
  
“I could live with it if I had to, since it’s pretty gender neutral sounding. But relative to my full name, it just seems a bit too effeminate for me, not that there’s anything wrong with that. Art is simple, to the point, you know? It’s distinctive, and tells anyone that I—”  
  
“Care too much.”  
  
Art scowled, side-eyeing her as she aggressively turned some nettles into dust with her mortar and pestle. “Sure, you say that now. But just you wait and see. If people started calling you Millie all the time, how would you feel?”  
  
She looked up briefly and shrugged. “I’d hit them ‘till they stop.”  
  
It was at this point that Art realized how strong she looked.  
  
He coughed and looked away. “Yeah, that’ll do it.”


	5. Chapter Five

Hypothetically, Transfiguration was right up Art's alley.

Aside from the whole turning into a cat thing. But _other than that_.

Limitless potential, packed to the brim with theory and repetition. It ought to be his best subject. Not so. For one thing, _every_ subject was his best subject, since being ten in school meant his classes were piss easy. For another, Art hated math. Even magical math wasn't spared. If anything, it was even less fun than normal math.

Still, he did his best to get by. Good grades, second in class, yada yada whatever. Between Zucchini and that one Hermione girl, he didn't care enough to be first. Nor did he really bother hiding his lack of enthusiasm, since subtlety was hard. So when Art was called on to stay after class, he wasn't sure what to expect. Still, he prepared himself for the worst.

"The homework, Mr. Crouch?"

Art blinked. Did she mean the homework he had just done? Slowly, he nodded, handing over the eight inches he had written up during class due to boredom. The professor sighed, taking it without further comment.

He shuffled in place a bit, waiting for the inevitable lecture.

A few awkward seconds went by as he waited.

"I'm making sure not to push myself too hard, professor," he piped up.

"Worry not, Mr. Crouch. The ease and speed with which you complete your work is still within the bounds of what we accept as being dedicated to one's studies, without being obsessed," she said, not looking up from his assignment. "Though as pleased as I am to hear you say that, I believe I also mentioned treasuring your time at school, and making memories. Have you followed _that_ advice, as well?"

Art nodded. "Treasured memories, yes ma'am. Loads of them."

"And making more friends?"

"By the bucketload."

She shot him a sharp look, and he glanced away with a cough.

"I cannot tell you how to behave in your social life, Mr. Crouch. Your work is exemplary, and you are never a bother in the classroom. That you find yourself beyond the level of many of your peers is unusual, even more so considering your early admittance. In fact, I applaud you for not distracting your classmates out of boredom."

He sensed a 'but' coming.

"However, I will only say this once." She turned to him fully, looking very tired for a moment. "If you continue to insist on isolating yourself, you may one day find that you have succeeded."

Damn. That was deep.

"Also, if it does become an issue in class… Rest assured, your head of house will be hearing from me."

Oh boy. Snape would _not_ appreciate being nagged about the ten-year-old special permissions kid. Art nodded gravely. "I understand, Professor McDonald. Thank you for this bit of much-needed advice."

She nodded, before pausing.

Art saw a deadly glint entering her eyes.

"What did you just call me?"

This was bad. His devil may care attitude could get him in trouble here if he wasn't careful.

"McDowell?"

"We're almost two months into the term, Mr. Crouch. Adding to that, we've just had a rather serious conversation," she said, sounding remarkably unimpressed. "Are you saying you've forgotten my name?"

He tried to swallow but found that his throat was very dry at the moment. No doubt it was because he was dehydrated, and not because he was starting to feel nervous. That would be ridiculous.

It came down to this. He could either admit defeat or make one last attempt.

In the end, it was never a choice.

"McGowager?"

It was also the wrong thing to say.

***

"McGonagall… Do doo, do doo doo. McGonagall. Do doo do doo."

Mumbling a muppets tune from the long long ago times, Art started down the hall towards his next class.

What was next? Charms? How exciting. Today might even be the day they learned how to make those useless wand wave sparks do something constructive. Like almost set something on fire, but not quite because the class moved at a glacial pace.

He yawned.

Correction. He _started_ to yawn, then his legs suddenly forgot how to be legs, and he crumpled to the floor.

The tell-tale sound of prattish snickering away in the distance provided all the context he could ask for. A classic example of bullying, if he'd ever seen one. Truly horrendous. Absolutely despicable. Open and shut case. Take 'em away, boys.

"Is this because I'm a Slytherin?" he called out, not expecting an answer.

"'Course it's because you're a Slytherin, you smarmy sod," someone called back.

"Only reason we need, you limp layabout."

At least they were honest about it.

"Are we classmates, or is it just the Slytherin thing?"

A second voice joined the first. "'Course we're classmates, you crusty cunt."

"Impersonal crime would be a waste, you worthless wanker."

"Nice job on the jinx, in that case," Art said. Credit where credit was due, and all that. "Can you let me up now?"

"'Course we won't let you up. Would defeat the point, you mangy muppet."

"Get to crawlin', you ploughin' pillock."

Right, 'course not. That would be too easy.

They were probably Ravenclaws. Nobody else would bother with that much alliteration.

Art briefly considered trying to figure out the counter curse. There was a problem with that plan, however. A few problems. Firstly, he wasn't familiar with jinxes, to his great shame and embarrassment. Secondly, jinxes sucked ass and he hated them. Thirdly, he didn't know which jinx this was, on account of not being familiar with jinxes, on account of jinxes sucking ass.

He exhaled obnoxiously and started army crawling down the hall.

It took a few moments before help arrived.

"You alright there? Here, let me help you out of that jinx."

Art wasn't a stubborn person. Not by any means. So when he ended up on the floor, dispossessed of his ability to walk, he gracefully accepted this help with a smile and some sincere words of gratitude.

"I'm fine, go away."

Art was a stubborn person. He freely admitted it.

"Quit your squirming, won't take a second."

He tried to make out the counter, but whoever it was made sure to say it all quiet-like. Art squirmed some more for good measure.

"There, up you go."

With a small grunt of annoyance, Art accepted the offered hand and stumbled to his feet. Brushing off his robes, he glanced over at his savior and frowned. "Do I know you?"

The ginger narrowed his eyes when he saw Art's face. "That's right. We met on the train." He stiffly shook his hand. "Though we haven't been properly introduced. Percy Weasley, fifth-year Gryffindor prefect."

Art deftly pulled his hand away and said, "Art Crouch, first-year Slytherin normie."

Seemed the boy already knew him, if his nod was any indication. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Crouch."

"Call me Art. Everyone else does."

Had Art hit his head somewhere? If he remembered correctly, they hadn't exactly parted as the best of friends. Yet the boy was being perfectly polite.

"Well Art, I know this is a bit of a sensitive topic… But if you ever feel like you're being victimized or belittled, you ought to seek out your head of house, a professor, or even myself. I'm a prefect, so I'm sure I can—"

"Oh, it's all in good fun," he laughed, waving it off. "They jinx me, I call them a few nasty names. Good times. treasured memories, bunch of pricks."

Percy frowned, clearing his throat a bit. "Language, please. All I mean is if you need help with something, don't be afraid to reach out and ask someone."

They stood there for a moment, Percy looking impatient and Art looking awkward.

He took a deep breath and said, "Look, I just— thanks for the offer, Percy."

"Not a problem. It's all apart of my job as pre—"

"Prefect, right," he sighed, running a hand through his hair. Another, less awkward pause settled between them, before Art perked up. "Actually, there is one thing you can do."

"Oh, what's that then?" he said, straightening up.

"Is there any way you could show me the counter for that jinx?" Art pointed at the floor where Percy had found him. "Awful inconvenient, rather not have to go through it again."

Percy frowned thoughtfully. "I think you're not actually supposed to cast magic in the halls, or outside of class. Without supervision, that is."

"Tell that to whoever jinxed me," Art said, before scrunching his face up in confusion. "Furthermore, why in the world can't we cast magic outside of class at a magic school? Seems downright unproductive, if you ask me. Not to mention impossible to enforce."

"I don't make up these rules, I just enforce them. Still, I suppose I'll have to go and check with McGonagall, but you should be fine just casting counter jinxes, and the like. Makes enough sense. Otherwise, all you firsties would be stuck until a prefect or professor came along. Anyway, it's actually fairly straightforward, the incantation is _Locomotor Stabilis_. Like so." He took his want out, waved it in a short circle, then stabbed forward. "Think you can remember that?"

"I'll carve it into a stone tablet with a chisel if I have to," Art muttered, going over the wand motion several times on his own.

"Well, I don't know if that's strictly necessary," Percy said. He shot several quick glances at their surroundings, before leaning in to speak in a quieter tone, "Not to be a nag, but you had best learn more counters than that. Because once they stop having fun, they start getting creative."

Art raised his eyebrows. "Who is this 'they'?"

"Oh, you know," Percy said, waving his hand vaguely. "They."

" _Right_ …" he drawled, frowning. "Any chance you can show me some more?"

"Well, it's not proper— I do know a fair few, actually. But—" He glanced down the corridor and cursed in a kid-friendly fashion. "I really ought to be on patrol right now."

Art cursed, but just in his head. "Don't sweat it, then. Thanks for the tip."

With a nod, Percy resumed his march down the corridor.

A strange encounter, to be sure, but a welcome one.

Art doubted he would need much time to master the counter. But Percy was probably right. What if 'they' got bored? He needed more counters, which meant more research, which meant more practice. Where to practice? In class, maybe? But then other houses would see him. His dormitory _might_ work. Draco would probably demand an explanation, and explaining things to Draco was an exercise in frustration.

There had to be _somewhere_ he could go to practice.

***

There was only one issue with practicing counter curses alone. That's right, only one. _Uno_. It was possible that someone could come up with others, but they would be stupid and wrong. That said, there was only one _real_ problem with practicing counter curses alone.

With a wave of his wand and a magic incantation, Art fell to the floor once again.

"So, it's come to this. Practicing counter curses on myself in an abandoned classroom, by way of also practicing jinxes on myself in an abandoned classroom. This isn't tedious at all," Art said to the unoccupied room, to no audible applause.

Sarcasm wasn't as fun when no one else was around to not get it.

"You know, in hindsight, I probably could have been casting this jinx while sitting, instead of falling down every time." He paused, letting that embarrassment sink in before continuing, "Still, nothing for it now. Time get on with this _stupid_ counter curse."

"Is that _really_ the reason for this?"

Art did not scream.

It didn't happen.

End of story.

Art _yelped in surprise_ , before rolling onto his side to see his spectator. It was Professor Snape, who was currently managing to look more passive-aggressively annoyed than ever before. An impressive feat for anyone familiar with him.

"Professor Snape, wonderful to see you."

" _Crouch_ ," Snape said his name with distaste, "given the circumstances, I cannot say the same." He took a few steps into the classroom, looking around with an eyebrow crawling up his forehead. "What have you done with this room?"

"Just uh— Just stacking up desks, clearing some floor space…" Art flopped on the floor. "So I could accomplish a smidgen of extracurricular spell practice?"

Why did it come out as a question? It was too smooth to miss.

Snape didn't look impressed, but that was par for the course. "Jelly-legs, is it?" Without waiting for a response, he jabbed his wand at Art. Once he had regained the feeling in his legs, Art scrambled to his feet and stood at attention. It felt appropriate.

"Are you aware that unused classrooms are constantly monitored for magic use, Mr. Crouch?"

He cringed and looked away.

"I suspected as much. Do remember this in the future, before involving yourself in such foolishness," Snape said reprovingly, "count yourself lucky that it was I who came upon you, your head of house. Since you _somehow_ managed to get yourself sorted into Slytherin. I might ask why in the blazes you aren't practicing in your dormitory, like a rational human being, but I feel as though that question answers itself."

"Don't sugarcoat it, tell me how you really feel," Art muttered, following Snape out of the classroom.

" _Silence,_ " he hissed, and Art's mouth snapped shut.

They walked down several corridors in silence, before Art dared speak again.

"Uh, sir?"

He could _feel_ the annoyance radiating from Snape.

"If you must speak, then do so quickly."

"Right, uhh…" Not quick enough. Must go faster. "Is there any way to get permission to use a classroom for extracurricular work? Like for practicing magic or something?"

Bam. Perfect.

Snape twitched, then took a deep breath. "Previously unused classrooms can be assigned to clubs, ones led by students, that have sufficient need of space to conduct their club activities. Club activities are written within their charter, pending approval from their head of house and the headmaster."

Art's mind was reeling with the new information. It took him a second. Once he got it, he broke out into a grin. "So if I were to go ahead and make—"

" _No_."

He blinked. "Sorry?"

" _Pending approval from their head of house_ ," Snape recited, tension leaving his voice and posture. It was as relaxed as Art had ever seen him. "No such approval has been, or _will ever be_ given. Hence, no club will be created."

"What if it's a really super amazing club, with karaoke and secret passwords and trivia games?"

Snape shuddered. "All the better."

Art glared, to no effect.

Now arriving at the door to the great hall, their perilous journey was at an end.

Wracking his brain, Art asked one more question. "Where can I find the rules for how to create a club?"

"Do us all a favor, and put it out of your mind, Crouch."

He shrugged, crossing his arms in brave defiance. "I can just ask Professor McGonagall, you know. She wants me to make friends and socialize and stuff. I bet _she_ would like the karaoke idea."

Not that he would actually ask her. She would make him invite people.

It was a hell of a bluff.

They had a somewhat tense standoff. Art imagined tumbleweeds blowing past.

Snape didn't sigh. But his eyes did close for slightly longer than normal. Art decided to count that as a win. Few as they were, it was important to celebrate and cherish them.

With a snap, his wand was out and he muttered a short incantation.

" _Accio_ Greco Sleco," he said, lip curling in disgust. Probably because it rhymed.

It took another moment, but a book came screaming down the corridor, into his waiting hand. Bits of cobwebs were clinging to it, and a trail of dust was left in its path. He tossed the book to Art, who fumbled to catch it.

"Do not imagine that the right combination of words shall sway me," he said icily.

With the last word going to him, Snape twirled his robes and stalked back down the corridor. Students dove out of his path. Art would later say that there were storm clouds above his head. It wouldn't be true, but that's how he would tell the story.

Someone would eventually believe him. It would be hilarious.

***

"And then he stalked away. Storm clouds followed him, and his eyes shot lightning," he said, gesticulating wildly at Millicent, who was aggressively stabbing at some potatoes. Given that aggression was present in everything she did, he wasn't offended. "It totally happened, you had to have been there."

Clenching a butter knife in her hand, she turned and glared.

"Glaring won't change it, you know," he said, crossing his arms and leaning away from the knife. "I can't help that my life is so wonderful and full of adventure. If you have doubts, then just follow me around. This sort of thing happens all the time."

She paused, and Art wondered if she was considering it. A terrifying notion.

"What's with that dusty old book, Art? Did you actually get bored enough to start asking for extra credit work?" Draco said from across the table.

Thank Merlin, a distraction.

His comment brought Art's attention back to the oddly named book that had been foisted upon him by destiny.

Draco was right. This was far too much effort to just learn some extra spells. This was only one of many future steps. He had to write a club charter and _somehow_ get it approved by Snape, who didn't seem to be open to suggestions. After that, he would have to wait for a classroom to be assigned.

For some reason, Art's victory over Snape was looking a bit hollow at the moment.

"Ugh, thanks for reminding me, _Draco_."

Christ, what a prat.

After eating a paltry amount, he cracked open his only hope and began to read.

"What's that about, then?"

"Shush."

Draco peered at the cover. "The Greco Sleco? What does that mean?"

"I don't know. It's an acronym, probably. Now be quiet, I'm trying to _read_."

"What does it _mean_ , though?"

Art groaned loud and long, flipping to the first page. " _The Guidelines and Regulations for the Establishment and Continuing Operation of Student-Led Extra-Curricular Organizations_ ," he said dryly, "by Greco H. Sleco."

What an awful title, and a botched acronym no less. That leftover middle name was going to gnaw his mind into insanity, he could tell.

"Right then. Forget I asked," Draco said, looking very sorry that he had.

"Already done. Now _shush!_ "

Time to focus.

_The student must create a charter, or a constitution, for the proposed club or organization. A charter template can be found on page two hundred seventy-three. The charter should be no less than four pages, and address in detail the mission statement and daily activities that the club members will be involved with. Examples of this can be found on pages forty-five, twenty-seven, and ninety-three. Pending approval from the students head of house, blahragh blarghy blah blah blaaagh…_

Art groaned and closed the book.

Hopeless.

"It's just hopeless, Draco. I don't know why I try."

When no eager response was had, Art looked up and paid attention for once. Throughout the hall, there was a lot of excited chattering. He strained to focus on the highlights.

"— hear about Potter? Poor sod—"

"— stuck in Madam Pomfrey's—"

"Weasley's beside himself, the mewling quim—"

"He took a little tumble off the cliff."

"Stairs."

"Whatever."

Wait, Harry bit the bullet? Not a chance. This was way too early for that to happen. Weren't there like twelve of those movies?

Art threw a turkey leg at Draco, who scowled at him.

"What's going on with Potter?"

The scowl turned into an elated grin. He looked as if Christmas had come early. Which was just ridiculous. It was still two months until Christmas, and that wouldn't change. "News just got out. Stupid git fell down the trick staircase. Be in the hospital wing for a day or so, sounds like."

"So he's _not_ dead?" Art said, hiding his relief. That was a close one.

Draco sighed, "No such luck, I'm afraid. Just a big dumb lump on his big dumb head."

Where was all of this aggression coming from? Draco was usually such a nice, well-behaved, only _slightly_ terrible person. For an eleven-year-old, that is. Actually, even by that metric he kind of sucked. Art asked him what his deal with Harry was.

"He refused my handshake!" he roared, bringing his fist down on the table with a crash.

"A breach of etiquette, sure. But he is a half-blood, raised by muggles, so he probably doesn't even know," Art said, unsure if he was missing something. "You want to see him dead, just for that?"

"Maybe not dead…" Draco said reluctantly, "just maimed, or seriously injured. At the very least, he _will_ come to regret turning down my hand in friendship. He will rue the day— Ow! Pansy, leave it alone. I'm fine. Yes, I know, it was very impressive. That's why I did it."

It would be a better speech if he wasn't cradling his hand and trying to keep it away from his pug-faced follower. Was her name really Pansy? But which one, the flower or the insult?

Wow, that was a dumb question, and Art was really glad he hadn't said it out loud.

He decided to change the subject.

"I guess it was high time something happened to Potter."

Somebody unimportant frowned beside him. "Why's that?"

"It's obvious, isn't it?" He gestured around the hall. "Potter's the famous one. Figures he would get into trouble, and everyone would know right away. Can you imagine if some nobody Hufflepuff fell down the stairs, like Berks? We wouldn't hear about it for years, I bet."

"You mean Perks?"

He frowned. "Is _that_ her name?"

"Weasley says he was pushed!"

Huh.

On one hand, that meant there was still an antagonist skulking around the place. But on the other hand, _really_? The villain of Harry's first year kicks off the conflict by pushing him down a flight of stairs? That was actually super lame. What would that dastardly fiend do next, try and get him to fall off a broom? Yawn-o-rama.

"Likely story," he said with a snort, "as if he'd fess up to tripping like a git."

Art was such a good friend, covering for Harry all the time.

Should he get him a card?

Nah. He couldn't read it anyway, unconscious as he was. No need.

Sighing, Art went back to the rulebook. As he read the abnormally boring rules, he started thinking of something that resembled a plan. His end goal was to practice magic in the privacy of an unused classroom, and that necessitated a club of some sort. A club necessitated a club charter, as well as some way to bribe Snape.

Lots of work, but Art was up to the task.

Plus, he didn't really have anything else going on.

***

"As you can see, Draco, I just have too much going on," Art said, shaking his head sadly. He nodded to the tome of rules in front of him. "There's nothing I can do. You'll have to continue your reign of terror on the student body without me."

Art found himself hanging out in the common room. Again. For some reason. There were probably quieter or more private places around— unused classrooms were a wash for now, but he had been feeling particularly lethargic and decided to settle. It was close to his dormitory, at least.

Draco scowled at him and crossed his arms. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you got that book from Snape just to have an excuse to keep turning me down."

"Don't be ridiculous," he said, "I'd have kept turning you down anyway."

"Oh," Draco said, deflating somewhat and shuffling his feet a bit. "Well, alright then. I'll just go and ask somebody else."

Gah, he almost sounded disappointed there. Art sighed. Damn emotions, making him feel bad for doing stuff all the time. What a nuisance.

"Why not ask Stacy over there?" Art said, pointing to a different first year.

"You mean Tracy?"

He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, go ask Tracy."

"That's not Tracy, that's Daphne," Draco said with a huff, "Besides, I'm not asking her. She's strange."

Art perked up at that. So there _was_ a Daphne in their year. He knew he hadn't been imagining things. Take _that_ , Tracy, you drama queen.

"I thought I was the strange one," Art said wryly.

"Well, she's even stranger."

"Exactly how strange are we talking?"

"Very strange. More strange than you could possibly imagine."

"Stranger than me? I can barely believe it."

"Stranger things have happened."

"You know," Art said, frowning as he scratched his cheek. "I'm starting to get sick of the word _strange_. Let's use something else, like _weird_. Weird's a good word."

Frowning, Draco paused for a second before saying, "She's a weirdo."

Art nodded. "Say no more."

Damn it all, but now he was good and curious. Someone Draco thought was weirder than Art? Preposterous. As Draco wandered off to round up his usual crew of miscreants, Art peered over the top of his book and studied the girl from across the room. Daphne was her name, apparently. Black hair elegantly done up, her uniform tidy, and her posture picturesque as she read her book.

She looked regal enough, but there had to be something more at play here.

Against his better judgment, Art stood and crossed the room towards her. She looked up from her book, raising an eyebrow at him as only truly pretentious people could pull off convincingly.

"Hey there. Daphne, right?"

Daphne tilted her head at him slightly, her face otherwise blank. "I hardly think the two of us are on a first-name basis, Crouch. From a family as esteemed as your own, that's quite the breach of etiquette."

"What?" Art said, blinking as he interpreted that. "Uh… Sorry, I guess."

She scoffed, but stopped frowning at him in disapproval like an angry school matron. "You _guess._ Subpar, as apologies go. Nevertheless, you may consider yourself forgiven. With that out of the way, what business do you have with the ancient and noble house of Greengrass?"

Art slowly looked around, expecting Draco to jump out and let him know it was just a social experiment.

 _This_ was what he had been talking about? This hoity-toity high society speak? A bit more than strange, that was for sure. Try-hard, more like.

"Well?" She said, clearly starting to get impatient. "I do hope you haven't approached me with nothing of value to say. That would bode poorly for our future dealings."

Bode poorly for their future dealings, would it? What a load of bollocks.

Art knew he shouldn't have listened to Draco.

Still, this warranted a response of proportionate snark. Suppressing a grimace, he crossed his arms, puffed out his chest, and summoned his most flowery and meaningless arsenal of vocabulary.

"Indubiously, young madame Greengrass. 'Twas quite boorish of myself, to be so utterly forthright with an acquaintance of such high regard and coming from such old and venerable stock. Prithee forgive mine own lapse in judgment, that we might leave this most inopportune of errors behind."

There was a small silence. Daphne squinted at him, her rigid posture forgotten for a brief moment as she mouthed a few of the dumbass words he had used.

Finally, she made an attempt to collect herself.

"Quite right, good sir… On this occasion, we… er," she said, mumbling and fidgeting slightly. "That is… Irregardless, we oughtn't… Forsooth? _Shit_."

She froze. Then she clapped a hand to her mouth, her face going pink.

Art allowed himself a grin of triumph. "Forsooth, indeed."

Still blushing, Daphne glared at him and quickly stormed off, making for the girls dormitory. No doubt she would return to him one day. With a heart full of vengeance and an even bigger vocabulary, she would challenge him once more.

Art nodded solemnly. He would have to be ready.

Looking down, he realized that she had left her book. Not a big shock. Blowing her mind with his dazzling array of words had left her pretty flustered, if he did say so himself. Had she really said _irregardless?_ Honestly.

Still, best to be polite and return the book. That way she may only harbor _part_ of a grudge.

With a sigh, he picked it up and glanced at the spine.

_Starships & Spellswords._

Just some fantasy book. That might explain the speech if it was less of a hobby and more of an obsession. Heck, this one even said _First Edition_ right below the title. She was _obviously_ a fan, at the very least. Or she was just rich. Or both.

It was probably both.

Art flinched as the book was ripped out of his hand. Looking up, he saw Daphne standing there, cradling it, breathing deeply, and looking far angrier than before.

Huh.

That peace offering didn't really seem like it would pan out now.

"Sorry," he said anyway, somewhat lamely. "I was just—"

"A gentleman should always endeavor to respect the privacy of a lady, and not involve himself in her personal affairs so carelessly," she said, turning and starting back towards the door. "Prick."

Art watched as she left.

"I don't think she likes me all that much, Tracy."

Tracy scowled up at him from her homework. "I'm Pansy. Tracy left with Draco and the rest of them."

"Yeah, whatever."


	6. Chapter Six

It was Halloween, and nothing cool had happened.

Well, there was that failed assassination attempt on Harry a few days ago, but that _barely_ counted. Art didn’t even think it was all that impressive. The kid was due to be released in the morning. Ignoring that, he didn’t lose a limb, or an eye, or even get a thematically appropriate scar. Super underwhelming.

Also, Art wasn’t able to watch it happen. So in his mind, it didn’t count.

Right around Charms class, Art was paired up with Millicent to work on the levitation charm. Not that the spell itself was hard. Obviously it wasn’t. Still, even if it wasn’t much of a challenge, it was at least more interesting than some of the other spells they had learned so far.

It was the cooperative part that made things suck. As always.

“No, not like that,” he said, frowning at his partner. “You’re doing it wrong. Swish and flick, like Flitwick did. Like _I did_ , _just now_. You were watching me do it, even.”

Millicent glowered at him. “I did.”

“Then how come you aren’t swishing and flicking?” Art winced and held up a hand. “Actually, don’t answer that. Just… Watch me, again. _Swish,_ and _flick_. Just like that. You see?”

She nodded, staring intently at his wand hand as he went through the motion.

“Good. Now do it like I just did.”

She didn’t do it like he did. Studying her stiff form and motions, he groaned. “No, no, _no._ You keep trying to move with your elbow, and your wrist isn’t even rotating. Were you listening?”

“My wrist is fine.”

“ _Really?_ ” he said, rolling his eyes. “Is that why you’re doing so well?”

She socked him in the arm. “Shut up.”

“ _Ah— shit!_ ” he hissed and grabbed at his arm, quickly glancing over at Flitwick to make sure he hadn’t been heard. A few nearby students looked over, but he waved them off. “Fine, just fine. Let me help, yeah? I’ll direct your wrist, help you loosen up.”

“Don’t touch me.”

Art stopped for a second, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Right, okay. Just pretend you’re writing. The wand is a quill. Move your wrist like you would if you were writing.”

Then he watched, dumbfounded, as she once again moved with her elbow.

“Your handwriting probably sucks,” he said.

“I will hit you again,” she warned, raising her fist.

Art scooted away from her.

***

He spent the rest of that gods damned class trying, and mostly failing, to make Millicent move her wrist around like a normal person. By the end of it they had at least made some progress. An inch of levitation was still technically levitation. But Art was mature enough to chalk it up to his sub-par teaching skills.  
  
Still not as sub-par as Hermione’s teaching skills, apparently.  
  
As it turned out, being a person of above-average intelligence did _not_ make someone a good teacher by proxy. Art himself was a prime example of that. But that was beside the point.  
  
The point was that Ron was being more annoying than usual that day, what with Harry not being there to look guilty and make him less annoying. Poor kid, still sleeping off getting tossed down the stairs like a sack of potatoes. Art decided he would write a card after all.  
  
Or just buy one, and sign it.  
  
Better yet, he could sign one that was already there.  
  
Anyway, Ron was being Ron with no Ron filter. As they were leaving Charms, it came to a head when he made fun of Hermione behind her back for being super smart and competent and having the foresight to detach herself from the plebs of the world.  
  
But in this case behind her back really just meant behind Ron’s back, since he had zero spatial awareness.  
  
She stomped off with tears in her eyes.  
  
Not the reaction Art would have had. It was basically a compliment. Sometimes he forgot they were all kids. Then someone would eat their own snot, or their voice would crack in a serious conversation, and he would have that _eureka_ moment.  
  
Even better, was when one of them had terrible taste in music and insisted on sharing it until one in the morning because honestly, none of them knew what _real_ wizarding music sounded like. So they really had to listen to his new vinyl from this revolutionary Albanian Necrosynth group. Whatever it was, it _sucked_ , and Art told him it sucked. But Blaise kept harping on about it long after everyone had told him to sod off and go to bed already. Prat.  
  
_Moving on_.  
  
Art was presented with a clear opportunity to do some bully shaming. Draco came to mind, and he briefly contemplated how hypocritical that sounded from him. But this was completely different. Kind of, sort of, not really. He turned to Ron and did a slow clap.  
  
“Wow, making enemies with the smart kid. _Way to go, champ!_ ”  
  
Honestly, some people had no tact.  
  
He would make it up to Neville at some point, maybe, if he remembered.

***

Later that evening, Art found himself wondering where Hermione had gone.  
  
Surprisingly thoughtful, if he did say so himself.  
  
“She’s been gone all day,” he explained to no one, since he was alone, as he marched down the hall. “Harry is still in the hospital, for god's sake. She has to be friends with him and Ron so they can solve mysteries like in Scooby-Doo, or something.”  
  
Maybe.  
  
He didn’t actually know. This was all just a theory. _A Hogwarts Theory._  
  
If he was being honest, he was mostly just bored and fed up with the status quo. This was the only plot hook he had noticed all year, aside from Harry falling down. Or, as it was now famously called in the first year Slytherin boy’s dormitory, by Draco, _the Fall of Potter_.  
  
By now, Art was desperate for any kind of excitement, and he was almost certain Hermione was a primary character. Ergo, the plot would involve her. It was high time for him to ingratiate himself with some protagonists.  
  
Harry was easier to find, but he was also asleep. The only plot he could imagine happening there was maybe some sort of prophetic dream. Very neat, no doubt about it, but not much of a spectator sport. Also, waiting around and watching someone sleep was weird.  
  
“If I were Hermione, where would I go to be away from Ron?”  
  
Art hummed and stroked his chin pretentiously.  
  
“Impossible to answer, better ask the source.”  
  
Art sidled up to Ron in a corridor and threw an arm around his shoulder.  
  
“Ronny-boy, ol’ buddy ol’ pal. How’s it hanging, my guy?”  
  
Ron shrugged his arm off of him and glared. “What do you want, Crouch?”  
  
“Fine, fine. Just wondering if you knew where Hermione ran off to.”  
  
Ron looked guilty and suspicious. It was a strange combo. Like a sort of emotional constipation. He crossed his arms. “I dunno. An’ I wouldn’t tell you if I did, snake that you are. You gonna go tease her?”  
  
Art rolled his eyes. “No thanks, you seem to have that well in hand.” He looked towards Ron’s posse, who eyed him without guilt, just suspicion. “How ‘bout you lads. Heard where she’s gone?”  
  
One of them just glared, but the other one looked away awkwardly.  
  
“I— uh, I hear she was off sobbin’ her eyes out. Parvati said so.”  
  
“Did she say where she was?” he said sharply.  
  
“No, was just passin’ by. Overheard just the one bit, is all.”  
  
“Welp, that’s more information than I had before.” He nodded at the boy. “You have my thanks, random background Gryffindor.”  
  
“My _name_ is Sea—”  
  
Art walked away, muttering to himself.  
  
“Who on earth cries for that long? Still, that narrows it down a little bit.”  
  
He hadn’t gone ten steps before Draco, his damnable admirer, accosted him.  
  
“Art! Got your head on straight? Feast is this way,” Draco said, pointing down the corridor.  
  
“No time for distractions, my friend,” he responded gravely, then he had a flash of inspiration. “Tell me, if you were a girl and decided to go cry all day, where would you go?”  
  
For some reason, Draco went red, and stuttered out his response, “Wh-what the blazes are you asking?! Why should I know?”  
  
“Please, Draco. Try to be serious.”  
  
“ _I don’t know!_ The loo, or somewhere dreadful like that. Is that what you want to hear?”  
  
His eyes went wide, and he clapped Draco on the back. “Considering who I’m looking for, you’ve been more helpful than I expected.”  
  
“Who are you— no, forget I said anything.” Draco straightened his robes with a huff. “Don’t know why I bother with you. Are you even _coming_ to the feast?”  
  
Art put up a hand and dramatically looked away. “Not a chance.”  
  
The Halloween feast was supposed to be a big deal, with lots of sweets and special food. Art saw things differently, as he was wise beyond his years. Give all these magical children a wealth of sweets, then pack them into a crowded room. There wasn’t enough foreshadowing in the world to get him involved in that mess.  
  
_Wait_. Wasn’t this the anniversary of Harry’s parents being murdered, and him defeating he-who-must-not-be-called-by-an-easier-to-remember-title?  
  
“Well, why not?” Draco seemed to be out of patience.  
  
Gods damn it all, but that was _just_ the right amount of foreshadowing to get him involved in this mess.  
  
He sighed in defeat and moped his way down the hall. “Forget it, let's go.”  
  
For all his moaning about it, the feast was comically short-lived. They had barely started dishing up when Quirrel burst through the door, screaming bloody murder about a troll of all things.  
  
“ _Awesome,_ ” he whispered, as the professor collapsed.  
  
This was too perfect to be a coincidence. Obviously, Hermione was going to be in the center of the excitement. Fueled by gnawing guilt, Ron would run and grab the freshly awakened Harry. Then the two of them would rush to save their bushy-haired classmate. After an ultimate troll showdown, of ultimate destiny, they would be best friends and have more adventures. It made sense.  
  
With an excited cackle, Art slipped out of the crowd of Slytherins and started looking for the nearest girl's bathroom.

***

Groaning loudly, Art knocked on yet another door.  
  
“Hermione! You in there?” he whined, not expecting a response.  
  
“Go away,” a familiar voice strained out.  
  
Brightening up at once, he ignored her and threw open the door, stomping into the bathroom. “ _There_ you are! I’ve been looking all over this bloody castle for you. Do you have any _idea_ how many bathrooms there are?”  
  
Hermione emerged from a stall, red-faced and puffy-eyed. “A-Art? What are yo—”  
  
“ _Four!_ Four bathrooms on the first two floors alone, and three rooms clearly meant to house chamber pots or cleaning materials. Ridiculous, useless knowledge, and it's all in my head now.”  
  
“I don’t care,” she said with a sniffle, “this is the girl's bathroom! You can’t be here.”  
  
“Don’t need to tell me,” he said, jerking his head at the door. “Been told off half a dozen times. So believe me, I know.”  
  
“It’s against the rules! You need to leave!” she insisted.  
  
“Now just you wait a second, I just said I’ve been looking for you! Fifteen blasted minutes I’ve spent running around this god's forsaken castle, just to see the action.” He frowned and examined the room. Undamaged, with no troll in sight. “Speaking of, where’s the troll?”  
  
“ _Troll?_ ” She went white as a sheet. “What on earth are you on about?”  
  
“Did Harry and Ron already lead it away?” he wondered out loud. Running over to the door he looked down the hall. There was only silence. After he tuned out Hermione’s whining, that is.  
  
“ _Artorius,_ stop being a prat _,_ ” she snapped, grabbing his shoulder. “Tell me what's going on already, would you?! What troll?”  
  
“No need for _name-calling_ , just because you’re still emotional from crying all day,” he said shrewdly, prying her hand off of him. “Quirrel said there was a troll running around, then he passed out. Hilarious, great fun, you had to have been there. After that, I ran off to see the tro— to uh… Try and find you. To help. Yeah.”  
  
Hermione’s mouth opened and closed several times, but no words came out.  
  
“Don’t you worry your fuzzy little head about it, though,” Art reassured, haphazardly patting her on the aforementioned fuzzy head. It sprung right back up because of course it did. “Harry and Ron were going to save you. I think,” he muttered the last part.  
  
Once again, he regretted not reading those damn books.  
  
“I-I think I’d better head back to the Gryffindor common room,” she said quietly, wiping her nose.  
  
“Good thinking,” he said with a nod, “that’s exactly what the headmaster told us to do when everyone started screaming and running around. Well, he didn’t say to go to the _Gryffindor_ dorm, but— you know, our own separate dorms, as dictated by house, and gender… And year.”  
  
Nodding slowly, she started down the corridor.  
  
Art fell in line beside her, keeping an ear out for adventure.  
  
“I can find my _own_ way back, you know,” she said, the unspoken invitation to get lost _not_ lost on him.  
  
“Are you insane? What if that troll shows up? You’ll be in a heap of trouble. All by yourself, no one to help, and I wouldn’t even get to _watch_.” He shook his head fiercely. “Besides. I already spent all this time looking for you, _again_. Be a complete waste to leave now.”  
  
She glared at him, some color returning to her face. “Excuse you, nobody _asked_ you to come looking for me. I most _certainly_ did not, and I’m not even sure why you have. What’s all this about you missing the action? Did you only come to see me get killed, is that it? Have a laugh about it afterwards with your Slytherin friends?”  
  
“First of all, I don’t have friends, I have—” he broke off with a convenient cough, placing a hand on his chest. “But that’s beside the point! Obviously, if I thought you were going to get hurt at all, I would step in. Although, I’m not sure how that would have helped against a troll. Moral support at the least, I reckon. Maybe kick it in the leg, call it a few nasty names, then run like the wind.”  
  
“Then why not warn a teacher? Why look for me in the first place?” she said shrilly.  
  
“I wanted to watch Harry smite the troll! I read his books, by golly, and he's a wizard!" Art said, bringing his fist down on an open palm.  
  
He was, of course, referring to the fake adventure books for kids. Not the actual ones for kids— those would have been too helpful. Art may have gotten a bit desperate for plot information by the start of term.  
  
“You are _also_ a wizard, Art,” she ground out.  
  
"It’s not the same,” he said, “I mean a proper wizard, like with fire and brimstone, sunglasses and lightning bolts. It's even his insignia for Merlin's sake!"  
  
She shook her head, now looking more annoyed than angry. At least she wasn’t crying anymore. “Everyone knows those books are complete rubbish. Besides, trolls are impervious to most spells, and Harry most certainly _hasn’t_ had any advanced Defence training. So what was the big plan?” she demanded.  
  
Art delivered while scratching his nose and looking away. “If logic follows, which is a roll of the dice in this place, then Ron would have saved you using that levitation charm. If I remember right, which I do because I’m amazing, that was the spell you two quarreled over today. Closed-loop, new friendship, bada bing bada boom.”  
  
“ _Levitation_ — Ronald? You’re saying that— that _twit_ was going to save me? With a harmless, basic first-year charm I doubt he even remembers how to cast _incorrectly_?” She laughed bitterly. “Not possible.”  
  
“Not _probable_ ,” he corrected, “but it makes the most narrative sense.”  
  
“Narrative sense— I told you. Those books are total nonsense. Rubbish. Hogwash.” Hermione clenched her fists, staring angrily at the floor. “Life isn’t some storybook.”  
  
“See, you _say_ that. But we do live in a society.” He snorted to himself, before continuing. “I mean we live in a magical society, where we learn magic in an enchanted castle, with wands, creating magical elixirs of untold power, and we are currently avoiding a giant creature from myth and fantasy.”  
  
His argument tore hers to pieces. Destroyed with cold hard facts and logic.  
  
She ignored him. “I wouldn’t want that daft oaf to save me anyway.”  
  
Art hummed lazily, having another look around the hallway. “Honestly, I don’t know why you took that so personally. Then again, you are still a kid, so I guess it makes a certain amount of sense. You’ll get over it in time. Take it from me, with maturity comes wisdom, or at least the ability to fake it.”  
  
“I’m older than you,” she bit back.  
  
“Touche.” But also not.  
  
“And taller.”  
  
“Now you’re just being mean,” he said, sniffing disdainfully at her. “It’s no wonder you and Ron ended up butting heads, with you lording your vastly superior intellect over him like that, and Ron being Ron. Anyone would retaliate under that much pressure. I mean, not _me_ but—”  
  
“I was not _lording,_ ” she said, sounding affronted. “I was just trying to help!”  
  
“Is _that_ what you call it?” he said with a laugh, shaking his head. “It came off as lording, even if you aren’t self-aware enough to realize it yet. Mind you, I do the same sort of thing, but it’s intentional, and my skin is a bit thicker than yours. Being able to take what you dish out, and all that.”  
  
There was an awkward sort of pause as they walked.  
  
“My vastly superior intellect?” she repeated, quieter than before.  
  
“Well… _Yes._ Relatively speaking, that is,” he quickly amended, pointing to himself. “I’m way, way at the top. Obviously. As for you… You may just be a kid, but you’re definitely one of the smarter ones I’ve seen around here."  
  
That wasn’t exactly saying much, but Art left that part out.  
  
Hermione looked mollified, at least.  
  
They walked in silence for a while longer, up and around the moving staircase, before she stopped.  
  
“Thank you for accompanying me,” she said stiffly, “I can go the rest of the way alone.”  
  
He groaned. “Didn’t we just have this conversation?”  
  
“Yes, but—” She fidgeted. “But you’re not supposed to know the entrance!”  
  
Running a hand through his hair, Art spoke very slowly. “I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but there’s this troll running around. Big monstrous thing, I hear it’s even impervious to most spells. Any of this ringing a bell?”  
  
“I _know that_. I’m not daft.” She glared, folding her arms. “I only meant that we’re almost there.”  
  
“Fine, fine.” Art was already over it. “How close?”  
  
She hesitated. “Very.”  
  
When he didn’t start madly scouring the corridor for the entrance, she seemed to relax.  
  
He rolled his eyes. “Right, glad we got that sorted. I’m going to run for my life now. Stay frosty, Hermione.”  
  
With that, he turned on his heel and ran away, true to his word. A very large portrait lady was giving him the evil eye, and he wasn’t very keen on being caught in the corridors. Especially now that his excuse was gone.  
  
So naturally, he was immediately caught by McGonagall, losing five points.  
  
Art hoped Harry was having a better Halloween than him.

***

The following morning, Art was repeatedly stabbing at his porridge while muttering to himself. His peers looked on in concern or well-disguised mirth.  
  
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he mumbled.  
  
Not only had he lost five points by being out and about during an emergency, but the troll had been nowhere near that damn bathroom. He knew he should have gone to visit Harry instead.  
  
Someone _really_ wanted that kid dead. Throwing him down the stairs like an asshole, then aiming a troll at him in the hospital wing. While he was wounded, to boot. Talk about overkill.  
  
“Stupid, stupid, stupid.”  
  
Ron, embodying the true spirit of brohood, had missed the feast to hang out with his best mate. Everyone else had _also_ missed the feast, but Ron had missed it even more so. Madam Pomfrey had been called off in a sudden and convenient emergency, according to the rumor mill. With the power of friendship and a disgusting amount of luck, Ron was able to save Harry from being flattened, earning ten points.  
  
“Bet he used the levitation charm,” he muttered darkly.  
  
Art had missed the plot. That was it. Over. Finished. Nothing interesting would ever happen again, for the rest of their time at school. It would just turn into normal school, with really dangerous methods of fighting acne.  
  
Draco said he was overreacting.  
  
Art told him he didn’t know what he was talking about.  
  
“That’s only because half of what you say makes no sense!”  
  
That made sense. Expressing camaraderie, he clasped Draco’s shoulder.  
  
Draco slapped his hand away and started grumbling.  
  
“Stop overreacting, Draco,” he scolded.  
  
Still, his words had merit. Not that Art would admit it to him.  
  
Mourning the loss of his appetite, he pulled out the book Snape had given him.  
  
“ _Greco Sl_ — You’re still on about that?” Draco said with a laugh, “I thought you’d already given up on the idea.”  
  
“It’s only been two days,” he said indignantly, pulling out a piece of parchment and a pen from his pocket. “I do have more dedication than that, you know.”  
  
“Of course, of course,” Draco said, not looking very convinced. “What kind of club are you making, by the way?”  
  
When in doubt, deflect.  
  
“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.”  
  
Draco somehow managed to look even less convinced, but he didn’t press the issue. “What’s that thing there?” he asked instead, pointing at Art’s pen.  
  
“A mechanical quill,” Art said blandly. “State of the art technology.”  
  
“Huh. Nifty.”

***

A week passed uneventfully. Art tried to come to terms with his failure.  
  
He failed, ironically.  
  
Deciding to go with plan B, he sought refuge in the library.  
  
To Art, the library was a zen garden of peace and tranquility. It was a haven for those who wished to avoid the harsh sounds and abrasive personalities of the outside world. All one had to do was make an offering of time spent in quiet contemplation. He could feel it in the leather-bound tomes and smell it in the musty air.  
  
There was a sacred atmosphere that he couldn’t help but cherish.  
  
Hermione abruptly sat down in front of him.  
  
It was gone now. Ruined. Anything left of Art’s mood went with it.  
  
“What are you working on?” she said with an odd smile like she was trying too hard to make it look natural and friendly but she was super out of practice.  
  
With great subtlety, he hastily covered his parchment of club ideas with the book on club rules. “Nothing much, catching up on some homework, definitely nothing out of the ordinary here, no siree. But that’s enough about me. What’s going on with _you?_ ”  
  
At this point, though she hesitated at first, she pursed her lips and gave him a look that filled him with dread. “I was wondering whether or not you had finished the homework from yesterday? After Charms, that is.”  
  
Art squinted at her. “Yeah, I finished it. Why are you asking?”  
  
“Obviously I missed a few classes the other day. Not a common thing at all for me, but it happened. And I— _well_ , I was hoping you could fill me in on what I missed?”  
  
Alarm bells. Alarm bells _everywhere_. Red alert, all hands to battle stations.  
  
“Um,” he said smartly, scratching his jaw. “Why though?”  
  
“Just like you said, you’ve already done it. You’re always on top of the classwork. You seem to take your education seriously, like myself, and I’m confident that the two of us could gain a lot from working together.” She paused, frowning at him slightly. “That is how Slytherins operate, right? Tit for tat, ambition and self-improvement?”  
  
That sounded pretty accurate, but Art was only a Slytherin on account of nagging the hat until it gave up, so he couldn’t really say.  
  
Deciding he should come off as a bit more snooty, he turned his chin up. “So, you’re looking for my help, but why should I bother? Like you said, I’m already super smart and amazing as it is, so maybe I don’t need you. What do you bring to the table?”  
  
“ _Please._ ” Hermione started to scowl, but she quickly schooled her features. “You’re clearly _well prepared_ , at the very least. But even I can tell that you don’t push yourself in class. Maybe you’re content with just getting by on talent. But it won't last. So you could do with some help, otherwise you’ll end up falling behind and not living up to your potential. Then you’ll be sorry.”  
  
“This is a really great sales pitch,” he said dryly.  
  
She blinked a few times, before flushing and looking away. “Sorry, I just—”  
  
“No, no, don’t stop now. This is great.”  
  
“No. Look, I’m trying to be nice about this, and that wasn’t nice.”  
  
Art shrugged. “I mean, if the alternative is you stumbling over your words, then just forget the nice thing. Just tell me what’s up. Be a big meanie if it helps. Like I said, I have thick skin. So be assertive. Be _blunt_. You won’t hurt my feelings.”  
  
“Are you sure?” she said, sounding dubious of his claim. He rolled his eyes.  
  
“Get on with it, Hermione. I don’t have all day.”  
  
She scowled and glared at him. A clear improvement. “ _Fine_. Have it your way. You’re a prat, and a right tosser sometimes. But you work fairly hard in class, and you were the only one who came looking for me when there was an emergency the other night. So at least I know you’re capable of being a somewhat decent person under duress. That being said, you and I? We’re going to be friends.”  
  
Hold on a second, that was too assertive. Back up, rewind.  
  
This time it was Art who stumbled over his words. “But— I… No, that’s—”  
  
“I won’t hear any arguments about it,” she said, sniffing haughtily at him. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you deflecting the other night. You have no friends, or at least you don’t consider Draco to be one. Silver linings, I suppose. And as Ronald Weasley so _helpfully_ pointed out, I am also without friends.”  
  
He was almost surprised to hear her admit it out loud, but dressing it up with fancy prose probably helped soften the blow. This was all Ron’s fault, that rat bastard. Or maybe Neville.  
  
There had to be someone he could blame this on.  
  
Before he could think of another excuse, she continued. “Before you complain that I’m a Gryffindor; Headmaster Dumbledore himself was a Gryffindor, and he’s known to be an advocate of house unity. I’m not likely to be any more ostracized than I am already, and I somehow doubt you’ll lose any sleep over alienating your housemates.”  
  
Damn, that was true. She was starting to make too much sense.  
  
“So… Let’s stop arguing, and be friends instead,” she said, crossing her arms and looking quite pleased with herself. What a smug jerk.  
  
It had been a dozen years or so since Art had people he could call friends without cringing, Draco notwithstanding, so he was a bit foggy on how the process went. But this didn’t really seem like the usual method. He opened his mouth to shoot her down, when Professor McGonagall’s words echoed in his mind. Like a kind of fucked up prophecy.  
  
He closed his mouth, which was now very dry. It ought to be easy, telling her off. This certainly wouldn’t be the first time. McGonagall was just trying to get under his skin, as revenge for calling her McDonald.  
  
_Obviously_ it had worked. What a bitch.  
  
Despite Hermione’s external resolve, she had to be nervous as well. Socially speaking, this was a risk for her. Wasn’t it? Heck, maybe she was past the point of caring. It would certainly explain her stooping to his level.  
  
Art wasn’t sure if he should feel honored or insulted. He was emotionally torn.  
  
Like how Ron was, all the time.  
  
After much consideration, Art came to the conclusion that he was fresh out of ideas and really, really tired of being… Bored. Yes, he was _bored_. This would make things _not boring_.  
  
No, he was _not_ starved of companionship. _She_ was. That was the point.  
  
He shrugged as casually as he could manage.  
  
Not very, as it turned out.  
  
“We can be study partners, but that’s all.”  
  
He offered her a crisp high five.  
  
Hermione beamed and shook his offered hand excitedly.  
  
Art felt his soul cringe away into the void.  
  
“Oh, I knew you’d be up for it. We’ll get along great, don’t you worry.”  
  
“Hey now, I said we aren’t friends,” he protested.  
  
“Right, yes. _Study partners,_ good idea _._ I‘ve heard about how much you Slytherins like your wibbly-wobbly doublespeak, so it’s important to have our story straight.” She nodded at him seriously. ”No need to worry on my end.”  
  
Art slouched back into his chair and looked away. “Whatever.”  
  
“Brilliant,” she said, both looking and sounding much more cheerful. “With that in mind, I was thinking we could schedule certain chunks of time to study different subjects. With the two of us working together, I believe we can—”  
  
Art wondered why he had ever liked libraries.  
  
All anyone ever did was talk.  
  
From that moment on, despite his many token objections, Hermione Granger seemed determined to be his friend. There are some things you can’t share without ending up liking one another, and barging into a girl's bathroom and arguing in a hallway for ten minutes was apparently one of them.  
  
Who knew?


	7. Chapter Seven

The days went by, getting colder all the while.

As he suspected, classes didn’t seem to be getting any more difficult. The lessons were old news, or familiar enough to not matter, and each new spell was fairly consistent in difficulty scaling. Art was starting to see a pattern. His years spent in lessons had prepared him well. _Far too well_. It was actually getting worse, since Hermione had an obsession with studying bordering on, well… _Obsessive_.

Right, Hermione.

That was still a thing.

Honestly, given Art’s slightly abrasive personality, he had expected her to get fed up with him rather quickly.

Nothing of the sort had happened.

Instead, she made honest efforts to socialize with him, even in the corridors. _Even in public,_ to his silent horror. It was almost all school talk, of course. She insisted on checking each other's essays and criticizing each other's spellwork whenever they worked together in classes their houses shared.

They even studied together. When he couldn’t find someplace better to be, that is. And that was most days. The walls were closing in around him. He couldn’t breathe. It was all too much social interaction for him to handle.

And in the dark recesses of his mind, he could admit that it was also a nice change of pace.

Rather unlike his current situation.

Draco perked up yet again from his plate of grapes and garlic bread. Knowing that anything that excited Draco was bad news bears, Art groaned and buried his face in his arms. “Please no, not another one.”

“No, no, you don’t _understand_. With the benefit of hindsight, I can see that dedicating something like that _just_ to Potter would be a bit indiscrete.” He shook his head. “My father would never approve of something so obvious… Instead, picture _this_.”

“I’m waiting with bated breath,” Art said.

Draco cleared his throat, bringing his hand up as if dictating a headline. “The Secret Subterfuge Society of Slytherins. For those looking for discreet methods of gaining intel on their enem—” he stuttered at Art’s glare, “— intel on their… _Friends_?”

“Intel _for_ their friends would be less blatantly sinister,” Art said.

“Ooh, _sinister_ , that’s another good S-word. Let me write that down.”

He reached over and snatched Art’s parchment and pen. Tickled pink with the image of Draco unwittingly using a muggle tool, Art sat back and let it happen.

“You know,” he said slowly, eyeing him with a frown. “On the off chance I ever get this approved, it will need to have a certain appeal for the public. I can’t use a name like the Super Secret Subterfuge Society of Sinister Slytherin Sycophants.”

Even if he was privately pleased with the addition of yet another S-word. That made seven. _Ooh, seven_ was also a good one.

That brought it to eight, ironically.

Draco said some choice words under his breath, crossing out something Art couldn’t see, before glaring up at him. “What would you have then? Some sort of do-gooder group a Hufflepuff would make? Help the needy and underprivileged with their homework? Call it something like the _Service Club_?”

He cringed. “That sounds far too altruistic for my liking.”

“Oh no,” Draco said sarcastically, turning his nose up at him. “I think it’s exactly what you’re looking for. Here, I’ll even pen it down for you.”

Art snickered into his hand. “Right, you do that.”

There was a minute of peaceful eating and frantic writing. Then Hermione walked over to the Slytherin table, chin raised in a dignified manner, ignoring the looks sent her way. She stopped by Art and was about to speak when she saw what Draco was doing.

“Are you using a muggle pen, Malfoy?”

Well, it was fun while it lasted. Way to be a killjoy, Hermione.

Draco stopped, face going white with horror as he focused on his hand. He yelped, dropping the pen and clutching his hand as if it were burned.

Hermione stifled a laugh. As Draco turned to scowl at her, Art stealthily snatched up the parchment and pen, hiding them in his robes.

“What do you want, _Granger_?” Draco said, managing to sound pretentious while still cradling his own hand. “Come to pay homage to your superiors, I expect? About time.”

“Actually, she’s here for me,” Art said, standing up and brushing off his robes.

“Did she challenge you to a duel or something? The absolute nerve, disgusting even from her ilk. Not to worry, Artorius, I’ll be your second. On the off chance that you die, I’ll avenge you and take your body back to your father.”

“What?” he said, scrunching his face in confusion. “No, I said I’d follow her to the spinach dish.”

“Quidditch pitch,” she corrected.

“Tomato, potato.” He waved her off. “Now what’s this about me dying?”

Draco opened his mouth, sputtering nonsensically. He stood up, grabbed Art’s sleeve, and dragged him aside, shooting a dark scowl over his shoulder at Hermione.

“Have you gone completely mental?”

“You’re one to talk,” Art said with a laugh, “but I have considered it, and by now it’s sort of a foregone conclusion, yeah?”

He seemed lost for words. “B-But you’re a Slytherin, and she’s…”

“A Gryffindor?”

“A _muggleborn,”_ he hissed, before pausing. “Not to mention a _girl_.”

What an odd thing to focus on. Were cooties a thing in magical Britain? For all Art knew, they could be actual magical creatures that caused the onset of troublesome teenage emotions and hormones. He made a mental note to find out later… Discreetly.

“Are you only now realizing all of this?” Art said, “Or are you just choosing now, of all times, to bring it up and make a big deal out of it? Because I assure you, I already knew those things.”

Draco threw his hands in the air and stomped off, followed by his minions.

“I think he took that rather well.” Art turned back to Hermione. “Don’t worry, he’s like that with everyone he decides is subhuman gutter trash of the worst sort. So you shouldn’t take it personally.”

She still took it personally, but whatever. He tried.

***

With the turn of the seasons, came the start of flying sports ball.

Art had never seen a game played before. Bit of an oversight, seeing as he was a pureblood. But he also had a very sheltered childhood. He had gathered the gist of it over the years, and especially from his roommates. From his understanding, these kids fly around, whacking balls at each other, and one kid on each team would try to find the special ball. The _golden ball_. It had wings, or something. Art wasn’t sure.

“It’s called Quidditch, you know.”

He scrunched his face up. “I know, but it’s a dumb name.”

“It may seem unusual, but it’s a Wizarding tradition dating back centuries. I’m surprised you don’t know much about it, seeing as you grew up in the magical world. I’ve seen a few copies of _Quidditch Through the Ages_ floating around, but I haven’t made the time to properly check out a copy yet.” Hermione broke off as he yawned.

“It sounds boring.”

“It’s a historic sport!”

“A _boring_ sport,” he amended.

She frowned at him, as they made their way to the pitch. “Fine then. If you hate it so much, just don’t watch. Go laze around in your room, or something.”

“Hate’s a strong word, Hermione. I haven’t even seen a game yet,” he said.

“Then how is it boring?”

“It’s not boring. I just get bored thinking about it,” he said, ignoring her strangled groan. “However, I’m prepared to go into it with an open mind.”

Hermione shot him a doubtful look, which he also ignored.

As luck would have it, the first match of the season was between Gryffindor and Slytherin.

They arrived, and Art made to follow her into the stands.

“Aren’t you going to support your team?” she said curiously.

He scoffed, waving a tiny green flag in front of her. “Of course I am. That’s why I brought this thing.”

She seemed ready to press the issue, whatever it was. Before she had the chance, Professor McGonagall’s voice echoed from all around, announcing that the teams would be taking the field in five minutes. After a few seconds of hesitation, Hermione’s shoulders sagged and she started up the stairs into the stands.

“Come along then, suit yourself.”

Art rolled his eyes. “Your generosity is boundless.”

With that, he started shoving and elbowing his way past a load of annoyed and bemused Gryffindors, trying to keep up with Hermione as best he could. It looked like she was trying to reach an area where a load of other first years were sitting. Decent seats. Shame about the company.

“Hello there, Ron, Harry,” he said, nodding at each of them in turn as he sat down behind them. He’d have greeted the others, but he had no idea who any of them were. Ron grunted without looking back, focused on the field.

Harry blinked at him a few times, glancing between him and the Slytherin stand in bemusement.

“How’s the head, Harry? Speedy recovery, I hope?” he asked politely.

“I would have been out sooner… But Madam Pomfrey wanted to keep an eye on me,” Harry said, smiling at Ron, who was not paying attention. “Then that troll showed up, had to stay another night. Felt fine, but I guess she had a bit of a fright.”

Art sighed. It sounded so very _exciting_ , shame he had missed it. “ _Lucky_ — I mean, unlucky. Terribly unfortunate business, that. Good thing my boy Ronny was around to help.”

“Wha?” Ron turned around, only now realizing that people were talking in his general vicinity. He narrowed his eyes at Art. “What are _you_ doing over here?”

Lifting up his flag again, Art gave it a wave. “Supporting the troops.”

“No, I mean— What are you doing over _here_?” He gestured angrily to the other side of the pitch, where a sea of students clad in green were sitting. “All the snakes are on _that_ side.”

Art pointed at Hermione, who quickly turned away from them.

“What? You follow her over here?”

“Um… Yes,” he said. Wasn’t it obvious?

“I— just, go sit with the rest of ‘em, already,” Ron said, crossing his arms.

“Isn’t the game about to start?” Art thought out loud, looking around.

His question was answered when the crowds broke into a cheer, as the two teams emerged with their brooms.

Art, taking a stand against peer pressure, did not join in.

“The game _is_ about to start,” Hermione said, still not looking at either of them. “What’s more, it would take far too long to move to the other side of the field at this point. Better if you sit here, and save yourself the trouble.”

“Sounds perfectly logical to me.” He nodded sagely, taking a seat.

Ron glared at him, then at Hermione. She glared back. Then Ron seemed to remember that he had been a big dumb prat not too long ago, and he flushed and looked away. There he went again, getting all emotionally conflicted.

The Slytherins were dressed in robes of resplendent green and silver. The house colors, if he remembered right. Sure enough, the Gryffindors were dressed in their signature scarlet and gold. Very garish. Appropriate for a fantasy sport.

Art could tell when the Slytherin team was being introduced, as the only cheering came from the crowd of Slytherins. Sensing the dangerous looks and attitudes around him, Art decided to practice a bit of discretion and kept silent.

His stand against peer pressure would have to wait another day.

Hermione opened up her Charms book and started reviewing.

“Ugh, of course you brought a book,” said Art, palming his forehead. “Wish I’d thought of bringing one.”

“You had one with you this morning,” she said mildly, “you should have brought it along.”

Ah, yes. The source of Art’s recurring nightmare about having to leave his comfort zone. The Greco Sleco. Awful book, full of purple prose and dumb rules. He wasn’t sure why he was still reading it. Morbid curiosity, or just more desperation. Hermione had also asked to see it several times, but he wasn’t foolish enough to put that kind of power in her hands.

“That thing? It’s a brick,” he said, side-eyeing her with suspicion. “Can’t take it anywhere. Needs a team of elite Aurors with levitating charms on each corner just to move it.”

Really, he didn’t even need to carry it around at this point. It was only rules. All he really needed was on the scrap of parchment he occasionally had the urge to add ideas to. Muggle pens were a luxury he hadn’t appreciated until recently. Good thing his father wasn’t a _complete_ weirdo, like Draco’s.

Oh, right. Draco had been scribbling his own suggestions earlier, that bastard.

Once Hermione looked away, grumbling, he took the parchment out and folded it in half. Then he crossed out bits of Draco’s stupid idea, because everything Draco suggested had to do with Potter in some way. Even the so-called Hufflepuff idea had a footnote that said ‘ _priority given to services that humiliate bespectacled brunettes and economically-challenged gingers_ ’.

He was getting sneaky. Sort of. Sneakier.

A sharp blow of a whistle tore through the air. The game was on. Fourteen brooms soared into the air. He quickly shoved the parchment back into his pocket. A young man’s voice echoed throughout the field, calling out the action.

Propping his chin on his first, Art blinked blearily up at the game.

He’d never been partial to sports.

***

“Slytherins in possession, Pucey hurtling towards the goal, he takes the shot— No! Wood’s right there to take it, once again! Back to Bell, narrow miss from that bludger— passes the quaffle off to Johnson, who has no one in her way! Bletchley reaches for it— GRYFFINDORS SCORE!”

“Knock her stupid fat head in, Flint!” Art roared, on his feet, aggressively waving his flag around to keep it out of Gryffindor hands. The game had been going on for close to an hour now. No sign of the snitch. The Gryffindor seeker, a fourth-year player named Albert Twig, had been harassed by Higgs for most of the match.

“Sit down and shut your gob, snake!” someone yelled behind him. He ignored them, eyes glued to the pitch.

Weasley— he didn’t know which one, sent a bludger hurtling into a Slytherin chaser. He dropped the quaffle, then barely managed to stay on his broom.

“Are you blind, Gibbons? What a git,” he groaned, collapsing back onto the bench. “Should’ve seen that one coming.”

Hermione looked up from her book. “Very boring game, Quidditch. Wouldn’t you say?” she said, reeking of smug satisfaction.

“Oh hush,” he said, not bothering to smother his excitement. Watching people fly around and hurt each other at high speeds was something else. He _had_ to try out for the team next year. Being a beater looked like a blast. “I don’t see you cheering, and you’re the one who insisted on going.”

“ _I’m_ showing solidarity with my house.”

He waved his flag in her face. “So am I.”

“Fine, but _your_ house is over—”

“Twig’s got a lock on the snitch!” Ron cried, frantically shaking Harry’s shoulder. He was pointing at a speck that was speeding straight up. It _was_ the Gryffindor seeker.

“Get on him Higgs, you useless muppet!” Art shouted, leaping to his feet.

Hermione poked him in the shoulder. Waving distractedly at her, he narrowed his eyes at the two shrinking figures. She tried to say something to him, but the crowd was in an uproar. He could barely even hear the announcer. The rest of the game had basically ground to a halt. Players on either side had all stopped to point and yell abuses at the seekers.

“Is it really up there? It must be. Twig is barreling up, Higgs almost right beside him! Higher they go, can they even _see_ the snitch?— The two seekers are neck and neck, shoving and ramming— Twig is reaching out, he’s going for it!— WHAT?!”

Everyone was on their feet, all except Slytherin yelling in outrage.

“Twig is hurtling to the ground, clutching his nose! Higgs went and stole the snitch from him! That slimy, disgusting bell end! Such a piece of cheating I have never— _Ow! Sorry Professor, okay I’ll sto—_ ”

Professor McGonagall took over, clearing her throat. She sounded resigned, as if expecting the outcome. “Higgs has taken the snitch. A posthumous penalty will be awarded to Gryffindor. Chaser Bell puts it away nicely. That concludes the game. Slytherin wins, two hundred and seventy points to ninety.”

***

“Load of bollocks, that was. Twig was _there_. He _had it_ ,” Ron groaned, looking forlorn as they all filed out of the stands.

“Awful bit of cheating right there.” Art shook his head.

Ron’s face contorted. “Hang on, your team won.”

“No team of mine,” he said, crossing his arms in front of him. “No matter how hilarious it was. But honestly, what did you expect, a brand new Seeker like that? Higgs is a veteran, Twig didn’t stand a chance,” Art finished with a snort. He wasn’t at all sure how long either of them had been playing, but pretending he knew about sports was surprisingly fun.

“Yeah, a veteran cheating git,” Harry said, sounding much more excited than bitter. It occurred to Art that this was probably Harry’s first time seeing a Quidditch match.

He walked closer to Harry, smiling all friendly-like. “First time seeing the game played, Harry? Likewise for me. Real exciting stuff, wasn’t it?”

Harry grinned at him. “Is it _ever_. I had no idea brooms could move like that.”

“Those antiques we have in flying lessons are _nothing,_ ” Ron said, shaking his head. “And Quidditch players _really_ have to know how to fly.”

“The _boring_ descriptions really don’t do the game justice,” he said. Harry nodded, and Ron laughed. Then he remembered that Art was a Slytherin, or something, and his face scrunched up in inner conflict again. Honestly, his face was bound to wrinkle at this rate.

Hermione did _not_ huff in annoyance, which was odd. He was deliberately baiting her, after all. Looking behind him, he saw her narrowing her eyes at her open Charms book, apparently lost in concentration.

“Oi, Hermione.”

She slammed it shut in an instant, blinking up at him in surprise.

“Problem with a spell?”

Clutching the book to her chest, she very quickly said, “No, no problem at all.”

“Sure,” Art said, not believing her, but far too nice of a person to press the issue. “I was just headed to my dorm… Were you still wanting to work on that Herbology essay later?”

She started to nod, then stopped herself. “Actually, it turns out I have something else to take care of. Last-minute sort of thing, no warning, just came up out of nowhere. I’ll try to make it to the library later, but no guarantees. Terribly important, very sorry, I hope you understand.”

It was clear why Hermione hadn’t been sorted into Slytherin, at least.

“Welp, see you later then,” he said, somewhat lamely. When she just nodded again, staring at him as if he were a stranger, he rolled his eyes and kept walking back to the castle.

Girls were weird.

He turned to say farewell and adieu to Ron and Harry.

They were already gone.

“Why is everyone so _weird,_ ” Art cursed under his breath, slouching his way back to the Slytherin common room alone.

Heh. More like _slithering_ his way back to the Slytherin common room alone.

He sighed and decided to feel sorry for himself. “I hate my life.”

***

“Now I _really_ hate my life,” he muttered, staring boredly at Draco from across the room.

After entering the common room, Art had been beset upon by Draco. Who else? Draco had then called an emergency meeting of the first year Slytherins. When Art asked if he could leave, he was told plainly that he had to stay until his hearing was over.

Seeing as the common room was a place of celebration at the moment, they were meeting in the first year boys dormitory. This meant that it was a rather cramped hearing.

It was also very unpleasant for everyone involved. Goyle continued to insist that the soap made him smell too girly, and that he preferred his own natural musk. How he knew what the word ‘musk’ meant, nobody could say.

“Why do I have a hearing?”

Pansy glanced over to Draco, who shook his head. She stuck her nose up at Art, then grimaced and covered it with a handkerchief. “The chair does _not_ recognize the accused at this time.”

This was stupid.

“This is stupid.”

Draco sniffed haughtily and stood up. “Let the accused be aware that should he speak without first being recognized by the chair, he will be held in contempt by this committee.”

Right, then. Art decided he didn’t want to find out what that meant.

He nodded.

Satisfied, Draco sat back down.

Given that Draco was the only one seated, and his dad was Mr. Moneybags, Art wisely assumed that he was the chairman.

“This committee has been assembled to pass judgment and ridicule onto the accused, who now stands before us. Pureblood heir and fellow Slytherin first year, Artorius…“ Draco paused, frowning. “What’s your middle name?”

Art squinted at him. “We’ve known each other for how long?”

“I— it’s never come up,” he said, his face flushing. “I bet you don’t know my—”

“Draco Lucius Malfoy,” Art recited blandly.

“Yes, but you aren’t a _firstborn_ , are you? So you wouldn’t have your father’s name as a middle name.”

“ _Righhht_ ,” he drawled, “My bad. I forgot all about my late older brother, Bartemius Bartemius Crouch.”

“ _Is_ your middle name—”

“No.”

“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t ask before, alright?” Draco said through gritted teeth, “Now, can you _please_ state your full name for the record?”

Art groaned, “ _Fine_. Artorius Caecilius Crouch.”

Having said it out loud, Art now focused extra hard on not looking self-conscious or feeling self-conscious. Honestly, his name was a bit of a mouthful, even by backwater pureblood standards.

Fortunately, no one seemed to notice.

“Right, fantastic,” Draco said, glancing over at his minion, who was staring at his parchment with a vacant expression. “Did you get all that down, Crabbe?”

Crabbe looked up, frowning. “How do you spell ‘committee’?”

Draco buried his face in his hands.

“C-o-m-m-i-t-t-e-e,” Art chirped, grinning widely.

He got a grunt of thanks in return.

A moment of awkward silence passed.

“You lot should really have some sort of motto, or pledge,” Art said casually, looking around the room at his impatient peers. “Like, ‘I pledge allegiance, to the snake, and the art of being all sneaky and stuff’. Something like that.”

Draco didn’t respond, but he clearly liked the idea of forcing more rules on people. After no one else filled the silence, he cleared his throat aggressively and glared at Pansy.

Startled back into the moment, she drew herself up and tried to put on a serious face. “The charges against the accused, Artorius Caecilius Crouch, are as follows.”

She looked at her parchment and blanched, before pouting at Draco.

“What?” he snapped.

“Do I _have_ to say all of them?”

“There aren’t that many, you—” He let out a strangled groan, wringing his hands together. “Fine, fine. Look, just— just the most recent one.”

She brightened up and coughed delicately into her first. “Fraternizing with first-year Gryffindor, and despicable know-it-all muggleborn, Harmony Granger.”

A few other first years let out some unconvincing gasps of surprise.

“How does the accused respond to this— er… Accusation?”

“That isn’t her name,” Art said, instead of answering.

Draco frowned at him, not comprehending.

“The Gryffindor you’re accusing me of fraternizing with,” he elaborated, “you got her name wrong. It’s Hermione. Not _Harmony_.”

“Really? That’s odd, I could have sworn…”

“What’s more,” Art said, as an idea came to him. “Don’t we need _her_ middle name as well?”

Draco blinked, before collapsing into the back of his large armchair with a sigh.

“I mean, it’s only fair and just, as all courtroom proceedings ought to be.”

“Yes, yes, fine.” Draco rubbed his eyes, looking less and less like he wanted to be there. “Let’s have it, then.”

Art stared blankly back at him. Unblinking. Unyielding.

“You don’t know her middle name,” he said, in a defeated tone of voice.

“I don’t know her middle name,” Art agreed.

No one really had anything to say at that point. Another silence was had, even more awkward than before, if that was even possible. Someone scratched their nose. A few students broke into whispers. Draco looked around, perhaps realizing that he was starting to lose his audience.

“Can’t you go and ask for it?”

Art hummed, idly inspecting his nails. “I _could_ … But wouldn’t that count as fraternizing? I’d hate to inconvenience this committee by inciting more charges mid-trial, after all.”

“I’ll sign a waiver,” Draco said, waving him off. “Just go and get it.”

“Slow down, Mr. Chairman,” he said, enjoying himself immensely now. “I can’t just prance up and demand she tell me her middle name. It would look too suspicious. We need to approach this with more subtlety. Like true Slytherins.”

There were murmurs of agreement from the crowd of children.

Draco narrowed his eyes at Art. “What are you suggesting?”

“I’m just saying. Getting personal information like that, it takes time. I need to earn her trust, get into her good graces. Then when the moment is right,” he trailed off, leaving the obvious unspoken.

“Then we can finally move on with our lives?” said an indistinct voice from the crowd. It was definitely Theo. Theo’s voice was the most indistinct of anyone’s.

Draco shushed the crowd, his face looking as though he’d eaten a lemon.

“Very well,” he said at last. Rising from his seat and drawing himself up to his full height of four foot six, he pointed at Art. “Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to— uh… Go and do all of that stuff you just said.”

Art snapped to attention, rigidly saluting him. “It shall be done, Mr. Chairman.”

He nodded impatiently. “Right, yes, brilliant— I mean, until such a time as Art can complete his mission, this committee is dismissed.”

Cheers erupted from the crowd. There was hugging and crying, and everything. It was awful. Nobody seemed very keen on sticking around, and the room was mostly empty a moment later. Draco scowled and stomped off. Pansy followed after him, holding a fresh handkerchief to her nose.

Waste of time that it was, he thought the hearing went rather well.

Art looked around and saw Crabbe. Still diligently writing down the minutes of five minutes ago. Adorable. Also sad and hilarious. But mostly pathetic.

Wait.

Speaking of pathetic.

Was he really hanging out with Crabbe? In his dorm? On a _Saturday_?

Crabbe looked up, blinking slowly as he realized the room was otherwise empty. Finally noticing Art, he asked, “How do you spell your name?”

Art left the room at a brisk pace.


	8. Chapter Eight

The following weekend, after a crushing Hufflepuff victory on the pitch, Art was sitting at the Gryffindor table. The schedule of studies demanded as much. Seeing as it was around two in the afternoon, the great hall was sparsely populated.

He sketched idly in the margins of his homework. Fifteen inches on cauldron thickness regulations, and how they affected the brewing of more temperature-sensitive potions. If there was a more riveting topic to cover, Art was sure he didn’t want to know what it was.

“Now, you may perhaps be wondering why I, a Slytherin, am sitting at this here Gryffindor table,” he said, gesturing grandly to his surroundings.

Hermione regarded him with an unimpressed look.

“Because we’re revising before Christmas holiday?” she mock-guessed before turning back to pull out another parchment, densely packed with tiny handwriting in neat script. Art briefly compared it to his own work. His definitely had more loops. A clear indicator of quality.

“Fine, maybe you aren’t wondering,” he allowed, “but for the record, we still have loads of time until break.”

“Your objection is _already_ on the record,” she said, writing somewhat more harshly and sounding somewhat more annoyed. “It’s even been addressed. It’s best to start planning for any sort of test now. How will you react if you get a surprise exam tomorrow? That’s right, it would be catastrophic.”

“I could probably wing it.”

She gasped. “ _Wing it_? You could get a poor mark! It doesn’t matter how smart you _think_ you are, hard work and dedication will always count for more.”

Art didn’t think he was all that smart. He was just well prepared.

“Studying and revising and re-revising are the best ways to keep up your grades,” Hermione finished, sounding quite done with the conversation.

He hummed noncommittally, eyes flickering up to the ceiling. Cloudy and grey, as it tended to be during these dark times. An exaggerated cough drew his attention to the other end of the hall. Draco waved his arms, mouthing silent encouragement at him.

Ah, yes. He had almost forgotten about his super-secret undercover mission to learn her middle name. Once that was done, the Slytherin committee of first-year nose pickers could finish dolling out his punishment for hanging out with her in the first place.

Except, he hadn’t forgotten. How could he? Draco reminded him every ten goddamn seconds.

Art steeled his inner resolve and decided to complete his task. No matter the cost.

“Hermione.”

“Yes?”

“What’s your middle name?”

“Jean.” She briefly glanced up at him. “Why do you ask?”

“Curiosity.” He shrugged nonchalantly.

“What’s yours?”

“My what?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Your middle name.”

A natural response to a question like that. Art should have seen it coming. Damn. “See now, that’s a rather personal question.”

“Like the one you just asked me?”

“That’s…” he started, then trailed off. “Right, I don’t have a proper retort.”

She went back to her notes. “If you’re too embarrassed, then just say so.”

Too far, Hermione. He was _not_ embarrassed. In fact, he was so comfortable, so at ease with his name, that he was able to get over his nonexistent anxiety and tell her. After about two minutes of internal panic.

“Fine, you’ve worn me down. It’s Caecilius.”

“Brilliant,” she said, “That wasn’t very hard, now was it? Seems to me we don’t have to go through this song and dance every time I ask you such a simple question.”

“I suppose,” he said, inclining his head at her. He reached over and grabbed a slice of buttered toast from his plate. “But wouldn’t it be less fun?”

“Not the word I would use to describe your attempts at banter.”

“I resent them being called attempts,” he said, biting into his toast. “And I’ll have you know, my banter is top-notch. Everyone says so.”

“I wager you’re the only one who says that.”

“That is true.”

“What’s more, you probably only talk in circles for attention.”

“That is also true,” Art said, leaning against the table. “I have come to love the attention.”

It made things more interesting, at the very least.

Ron piped up from down the table. “Is that why you’re sitting at the Gryffindor table, for the attention?”

Art straightened up at once, turning towards him with a smile. “Does this mean that you, Ron Weasley, are perhaps wondering why I, a Slytherin, am sitting at this here Gryffindor table?”

Ron’s face _started_ to scrunch up in confusion, then he opened his mouth to reply.

“Don’t encourage him,” Hermione snapped, sending a dark look his way.

Art deflated, slouching back against the table, his spirit crushed.

“Spoilsport,” he lamented.

For whatever reason, she seemed to be in a better mood after that.

***

A handful of hours went by. Art decided to make his excuses, and escape from revisions. It wasn’t hard. The opportunity arose when Hermione ended up in a spat with Ron about how important pronunciation was in Charms. An argument as old as time between the pair of them.

As for why they were talking in the first place, Art hadn’t been paying enough attention to figure that out.

Unfortunately, moments after his getaway, he found himself in the company of Draco. If it wasn’t one, it was the other. Ever following in Art’s footsteps without being seen. Like a shadow in the night.

“Mission report, December sixteen, nineteen ninety-one.”

Art gave him a look. “It’s still November, Draco.”

“Unfortunate, but true,” Draco said with a scowl. “I can hardly wait for Christmas vacation. I almost regret coming to this blasted school in the first place. What a sorry state this place is in.”

Art decided not to comment.

“At any rate, that’s not what I meant.”

“Enlighten me.”

“What I _meant_ ,” Draco said, glaring as if Art had interrupted him. “Is that your mission report is due next month, on the sixteenth.”

“Last day before vacation. Makes sense,” Art said, yawning. “Thanks for clarifying, not sure I would have figured it out on my own.”

“Think nothing of it, that’s why I’m here,” Draco said, and Art was not sure if he noticed the lack of sincerity. “Now that I mention it, how is the mission going? Any updates for me?”

“Mission report, December sixteen, nineteen ninety-one,” Art parroted.

“Yes yes, I know. Off the record, though. I’m curious.”

“I can tell.” He made a show of looking around, then waved Draco closer in a conspiratory fashion. “The Gryffindors aren’t the most cunning, as you well know. But they’re also slow to trust outsiders. Me sitting at their table, treading in the muck of their company, it’s slow going. But I’ll win them over yet.”

Draco shook his head. “Don’t bother with all of them. We just need Granger to slip up.”

“Pack mentality,” Art said, latching onto the easy explanation. “They have to trust me. Middle names are personal for muggles and muggleborns, so it isn’t something she’ll give up lightly.”

“Ah, a snake in lion's clothing. I understand.”

What an image that metaphor conjured.

Gods, but he was having a good time with this mission.

Art was content to bask in the silence as they aimlessly meandered in the corridors. Draco started to fidget, however, and occasionally gave him sidelong looks. Then he cleared his throat and said, “Have you put any more thought into the club?”

With a slow blink, Art wracked his brain. “You know what? I’ll be frank, it’s completely slipped my mind. Studying with… That is to say, earning Granger’s trust, it’s taken over most of my free time.”

“Believe me, I’ve noticed. Girl is an absolute menace, studying all the time, raising her hand in class. Truly wretched.”

Art hummed noncommittally.

“Yes, right— I was just thinking, I might help you out some, add some ideas to the ol’ list.” He blanched and crossed his arms defensively. “Not with that muggle contraption you insist on carrying around, Merlin knows why.”

“Granger is a muggleborn. The ease with which I use that archaic instrument sets her at ease, probably. I don’t know. Sacrifices must be made. It’s for the greater good.”

The excuses almost made themselves. Disbelief would win out eventually. But given the track record of the rest of his house, Art wasn’t particularly concerned. “At any rate, I lost the list sometime last weekend. You’ve only just reminded me.”

Draco slouched and looked crestfallen. Art rushed to console him.

“It’s not my fault,” he cried defensively, “I reckon it just fell out of my pocket somewhere. Who knows, it may yet turn up.”

“Did you put your name on it?”

“Have you gone mental?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “Pure blackmail if the wrong sorts found out. Signing my name, honestly. Much too incriminating.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Draco mumbled, “you still have the rulebook at least? The Meckle Sheckle?”

“Greco Sleco, and yes, I still have the stupid thing. But why the interest? Not like Snape would ever sign off on it, the slimy ponce.” Art looked around quickly as he said that. He half-expected the man to drop from the rafters and thwap him on the head, or break his kneecaps with a crowbar.

“No? What did you do to cross him?”

“The assumption that it was I, wounds me greatly.” Art sniffed and turned away. “ _I_ have been a perfect gentleman.”

“Somehow, I doubt that.” Draco said. A pensive expression overtook his usual sneer. “If it came down to it, I could ask him for you. He favors me, you see.”

“Maybe.” He nodded, if only to placate Draco for now. “Keep it in mind. For now at least, I’m not quite that desperate.”

Art was on a roll today, it seemed. He was just so great, he couldn’t help leaving people in better moods. Draco stepped lightly after that. He might have skipped if he was a less stuck-up person.

That being said, it probably shouldn’t have come as a surprise when he practically sparkled upon noticing Neville. Alone, as the boy often was. He was hugging the wall as he tried, in vain, to avoid Draco’s eager eyes.

Art felt a strong sense of foreboding.

“Afternoon there, squib,” Draco said brightly, “admiring the masonry?”

Neville pursed his lips, looking away. “Afternoon, Crouch.”

A beat, then Draco laughed.

“Not even gonna say hello?” he said, elbowing Art in the ribs. “Didn’t your parents ever teach you basic manners?”

Neville jerked, his face flushing slightly. He didn’t respond.

Eyes widening slightly, Art looked askance at his companion. The boy was focused on Neville. But more importantly than that, was what the fuck? Was this what Draco got up to when Art wasn’t around to occupy him with quips and somewhat witty banter?

“I see. Trying to hide there, Longbottom? Might be a charm that can help with that… Oh, what am I thinking? You can’t _do_ any magic, can you?” He slapped his forehead in mock-realization.

A slapping sound, louder than anyone had expected, rang out in the corridor. Draco flinched, lowering his hand. He had finished his delivery, but an angry red mark was visible on his face and tears welled up in his eyes. A truly strange amount of force to apply when slapping his own forehead.

Neville tensed, then laughed. Covering his mouth, he tried to smother it.

Draco’s eyes flashed dangerously, wet as they were. He took out his wand.

“Don’t worry your head, squib,” he spat, “I know a spell to help you out.”

Neville took a few hurried steps back in alarm.

Art nervously licked the inside of his teeth. This was all very dramatic, and super fucked up by the way. Neville was a pretty alright kid, he didn’t deserve this sort of shoddy treatment. Nobody did. Shit. Art was in a position to help, misplaced as his guilt may have been. But then, maybe it wasn’t so misplaced. Balls.

With hardly a second to reconsider, he moved his hand to grasp Draco’s arm.

“He and Granger,” Art whispered quickly, all too late recognizing the line he was treading on. He ignored Neville’s curious look as the boy strained to hear. “They’re friends. This’ll reach her, you know it will. Think of the mission.”

Draco’s teeth ground together, as his gaze flickered between Art and Neville.

In truth, Hermione and Neville had hardly seen each other since the sorting.

“Fine,” he said, “For now. Remember, the sixteenth.”

Art nodded wearily.

Then Draco stalked away, refusing to acknowledge Neville any further.

Art waited until his footsteps had disappeared down the hall. Once he was positive they were alone, he sighed. Not looking directly at Neville, he leaned against the wall, allowing himself to slide to the floor.

“I— uh,” Neville mumbled, rubbing his arm. “Thanks.”

“Happy to help,” he said, running a hand through his hair.

Suddenly, Art felt tired.

“That’s— that’s very Hufflepuff of you,” Neville said, then bit his tongue. “I mean… That is to say, it’s nice. Thank you. Again.”

Art snorted to himself. “It’s like I said on the train. I embody the best qualities of each house.”

“You _do_ remember the train ride, then.”

Art decided not to grace that with a response.

“Do you regret your sorting?”

He thought about not answering, then thought better of it. “Of course not, don’t be absurd. House pride, go snakes, down with the lions…” he trailed off, sighing again and closing his eyes. “Fuckin’ whatever.”

For a moment he was content to sit there, wallowing in the silence.

“Right,” Neville said quietly, looking down at his feet. “Me too.”

Art grimaced. “Sorry.”

“You don’t… I mean, it’s not—”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, hush. I apologize for threatening you, and making you doubt yourself before the sorting. I’m also sorry about Draco’s really awful behavior and comments, and for not stepping in sooner. It was callous of me. Please accept my apology before I turn into a prat again, and I somehow manage to sound even less sincere.”

Neville quickly wiped at his nose. “Thanks… I forgive you, I think.”

“Glad to hear it,” Art said, stumbling to his feet and brushing off his robes. Just as he was geared to leave, he noticed a sinking feeling in his stomach and flinched. “Right… While I’m apologizing… My brother. I was a baby, and so were you, but it was still your parents. Right cruel, what happened to them. I won't ask you to let it go or anything. Just know that I’m sorry it happened, all the same.”

Neville gave a jerky nod, much closer to crying than before.

And Art himself felt worse, despite doing the right thing. What a scam these apologies were turning out to be.

They stood there for another moment, neither sure what to say. Before it became _too_ awkward, he shot Neville a quick thumbs up.

Hesitantly, Neville returned it.

Looking down the corridor, Art carefully considered where Draco had likely gone. Then he shoved his hands into his pockets and wandered off in the opposite direction, on the lookout for a good secluded corner. It was high time he got some serious brooding done.

***

After that, Art’s brooding session kept going throughout the week.

Not that this was something unusual, or even uncalled for. In his opinion, at least. What with the lack of stimulating schoolwork, the occasional jinx in the halls, the heart to heart with Neville, or the looks of consideration Hermione sometimes gave him when she thought he wasn’t paying attention. Even without those, sulking was just easy.

In hindsight, Art wasn’t sure why this particular sulk was of note.

Could it be that being faced with Draco’s true behavior was to blame? Guilt made the most sense. Art was not a fan of feeling guilty, and the only solution he could think of was to deflect and blame his problems on some faceless nobody he could beat up in his head.

Call it a thoughtful silence then, instead of a sulk.

Sure, why not.

Before he could finish this cycle in peace, however, Hermione talked to him.

His thoughts snapped back to reality, and he fell out of his chair with a cry, because she was _far_ too close. Gods above, what was she thinking, getting right up in his face with that conflicted expression? Who did she think she was, Ron?

Madam Pince’s head popped around a corner, displeasure clear on her face.

“Sorry,” Art whispered, accepting the blame. Because Hermione was already back in her own seat. To any bystander, she looked the very essence of innocent poise. But he could look past the veil, and gaze upon the heartless betrayal sitting there.

The librarian lady pointed two fingers at her eyes, then at Art. “I’m watching you, Crouch.”

Then she vanished.

“Mental, that one,” he muttered.

“ _Always watching_ ,” she whispered, her voice echoing softly around them.

Once the sound had faded, Hermione bit her lip. “Sorry,” she said.

Art yawned. “Everyone deciding to apologize all at once, is it?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

She frowned slightly but didn’t press the issue.

“More to the point, what was _that_ ,” he said, gesturing at her impatiently. “Were you trying to scare me? If so, you succeeded. That was brilliant, even if it was super out of character.”

“Out of cha— No, I was _not_ trying to scare you! I would never do something so juvenile. Especially with Madam Pince around…” she said, then hesitated, and looked away. “But you weren’t responsive, just staring into space. I was worried.”

Art gasped and placed a hand on his chest. “Worried, about _me?_ I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be,” she said, remembering who she was talking to. “Only trying to be polite.”

“Perfectly polite,” he agreed, “I appreciate the thought.”

There was a lull in the conversation, where Art almost managed to zone out again.

“If it’s alright, I was hoping we could talk about something.”

“Like we are right now?”

“Something else.”

“Something specific then?” At her nod, he propped his chin onto his fist and looked at her with eyes half-lidded. “Do tell.”

Clearing her throat, she adopted a business-like demeanor.

Always a bad sign.

“It has come to my attention,” she began, eyes scrutinizing him. “That you’ve been keeping something from me. In my opinion, this clearly goes against the spirit of our friendship, unregulated as it may be. Though I’m perfectly willing to look past it, so you’re aware. At this point you really shouldn’t feel the need to sneak about. Honestly, even if you are a Slytherin. If you were struggling you should have just asked for help, that’s—”

“You have my parchment, don’t you?” he said dryly.

Hermione paused, then slowly nodded. Avoiding his amused gaze, she rustled through her bag for a second before pulling the parchment out, and sliding it across the table.

Putting on a thoughtful frown, he looked down at the fabled parchment. The prodigal son had returned. Now Draco could find something else to nag him about.

“So, you’ve been keeping something from me,” he said seriously, trying his best to smother a grin as he idly traced his finger over the scribbles. “It seems to me that this goes against the spirit of our friendship, unregulated as it may be.”

Her face went a bit red, and she looked away with a mumbled apology. At this point, Art began to feel a bit bad. Maybe his recent tendency towards self-awareness was at fault.

“Since when?” he asked, abandoning the lecture. “The quidditch game?”

“Yes.” Hermione took a deep breath, maybe steeling herself. Then she said a lot of words very quickly. “You dropped it in the excitement, and I picked it up, and obviously I tried to give it back since it’s yours, but you weren’t really paying attention, so I accidentally read it on purpose and it had all these different ideas scribbled down, and I felt a little guilty since you clearly hadn’t meant for me to read it, but you didn’t ask after it. I thought maybe you didn’t care and it wasn’t important, but I really didn’t want to admit I had taken it and not immediately given it back and it was dishonest and I’m sorry.”

Art found himself feeling a lot worse by the end of her apology. He knew apologies weren't supposed to be fun, but this was getting ridiculous.

This reaction was very unlike Hermione. Stubbornness was her usual attitude towards… Heck, basically everything. Unwavering stubbornness. It was endearing, kind of, and made their usual barbed exchanges all the more carefree. Especially since she never admitted defeat.

Well, ‘never’ was obviously an exaggeration. They had only known each other for a few months. But this moment of vulnerability and doubt, it had him worried. Not that he would ever say as much to her face. Better to err on the side of caution here, and leave his usual witty sarcasm for later.

“I appreciate your honesty, Hermione,” he said after a moment. He smiled in a _very_ carefully non-mocking way. “Thanks for returning this. You’re a good friend.”

She smiled shakily back at him, almost looking like she would cry.

In a burst of panic, Art offered her a high five. That always worked.

Wiping at her eyes, she reached out and shook his hand.

“ _Hermione_ ,” he said in an exaggerated whine, “we talked about this!”

That got a small choke of laughter, and Art let out a breath of relief. If she had actually started to cry he would have been very uncomfortable. His comfort zone was safe, for now.

They sat in silence for a time, and he felt uncomfortable anyway, but it really could have been worse.

There was a minute or so where he tried to theorize what could be going through her mind, but given his lack of expertise in the thoughts of girls, this proved to be a complete waste of time. What a shock.

As Hermione sniffed and pulled herself together, Art idly wondered what it would be like to be consistently self-aware and nice and normal, and be better at doing people things.

But that was way too depressing, so it was probably for the best that Daphne chose that moment to present herself as a conveniently-timed distraction.

“Still associating with the muggleborn, Crouch?” she said, voice dripping with disdain. “I do hope you don’t find yourself too at ease around her, or you risk besmirching your family name.”

Art groaned. “Daphne, it’s been too long. How’s life? Learn any new words lately?”

She laughed the fakest of laughs, covering her mouth with her hand. “Hilarious. Truly, yours is the lowest form of wit. But please, Crouch, don’t let your attempts to impress your acquaintance here distract you. Remember your true mission.”

With that, she gave him a meaningful look and jerked her head at Hermione several times. Her vocabulary was far more practiced than her subtlety, it seemed.

Art glared at her. What a bitch. “I know what I’m doing, and I don’t need you looking over my shoulder. Go read your fantasy books, you weirdo.”

Her face immediately soured, and she quickly looked around before shooting him a hateful glare and storming off. _Rude_.

“Sorry about her. She’s always like that.”

Hermione frowned at him. “What was that about? What true mission?”

“It’s not—” Art broke off, looking at her and thinking for a second.

Was there anything to be gained by lying about this?

Not really.

Was Art in the mood to foster the growth of some melodrama?

 _Not really._

Did he value Hermione’s trust and goodwill enough to be honest with her?

Apparently so.

“Well, it’s like this, you see,” he said, trying to put it into words. “Draco doesn’t like me hanging out with you, so he convened the grand council of first-year Slytherins in order to pass judgment on me. Through a legal loophole, I convinced them that we needed your middle name in order for the proceedings to be legitimate, and they somehow fell for it. Now I have until next month to tell them your middle name, at which point they’ll finish judging me.”

There, that wasn’t so bad.

“Really?” Hermione said, sounding doubtful.

“Really really.”

She took a moment to put her thoughts together. “That’s foolish.”

Art snorted. “Tell me about it.”

Looking at where Daphne had made her exit, Hermione asked, “Is that how she usually talks? It came across as… _Formal_. More so than the others.”

“It’s weird, is what it is,” he said, shaking his head in exasperation. “Yeah, she always talks like that. Nobody knows the true reason behind it. Me, I think it’s on account of her obsession with fantasy novels, but that’s just a theory _._ ”

“Fantasy novels? Anything I might know?”

Art shrugged. “You tell me. Ever read _Starships and Spellswords_?”

There was a brief pause where Hermione just stared at him.

“What?” he said, feeling self-conscious. It wasn’t _his_ book.

“Nothing… I _think_ I’ve seen that book, at Flourish and Blotts,” she said slowly, still sounding bewildered. “If I remember right, and I most certainly do, it was a kind of board game… With quests and monsters. Dice, and those things.”

This time it was Art’s turn to stare at Hermione. They had D&D here?

“We have tabletop roleplaying games?”

“That’s what it said… Based on its lack of popularity, I can only assume it’s some sort of niche, low-brow interest. The book was new, as I recall. Likely a muggleborn creation.” She again looked over at where Daphne had gone. “I wouldn’t have imagined a pureblood would be into that sort of thing.”

“Yeah,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “What a world.”

What use could wizards and witches possibly have for a fantasy roleplaying game? Was it still a form of escapism? Did this mean Daphne just talked like that for no reason? Why was she so embarrassed about it?

Well, it was still the nineties. Maybe that was reason enough.

At any rate, that was a mystery for another time.

Art pulled out his trusty muggle pen and a sheet of fresh parchment.

“What’s that? You _are_ done with your assignments, aren’t you?” Hermione asked, always prepared to get on his case for something or other.

“I am. This is a letter.”

“To your family?”

He froze for an instant. Several thoughts flew through his head, over and over. His wrist itched, and he was extremely aware of how rapidly his heart began to beat. He swallowed slowly.

As quickly as it had started, it passed.

“Yes,” he said, unclenching his jaw. He resumed writing. “To my father.”

“Oh, do you send your grades and scores home as well? I always try to keep my mum and dad up to date on my schoolwork, how I’m doing in classes, and that sort of thing.”

“My father has ways of knowing my grades,” Art said with a snort, “He doesn’t need me to tell him.”

“Oh,” Hermione said, before pausing for a moment. “Is something wrong, then?”

When he looked up at her, she had a thoughtful expression.

“It’s just, you don’t normally write home…” she slowly trailed off, before freezing and ducking her head away. “Oh, I’m being nosy _again_ , aren’t I? After all that, I just— ignore that, you know that I like to ask a lot of questions.”

Art laughed. “I couldn’t imagine getting you to stop asking questions, Hermione. By all means, keep at it. Besides, it’s nothing dramatic. Just letting him know I’ll be staying at Hogwarts over the holiday.”

That brought her own muttering up short.

“Really?” she asked, looking at him in surprise. “Why is that?”

His face turned serious, mouth set into a hard line.

“Because otherwise he’ll beat me to it,” Art said gravely, “and then it won’t be my idea anymore.”


	9. Chapter Nine

Art had a hard time containing his mirth on the last day of term.  
  
“Oh, quit your laughing,” said Hermione, sulking and refusing to look at him. “You couldn’t have predicted it any more than I could.”  
  
The end of term exams, the ones they had spent so long revising for, had barely happened at all. A formality, at best. From the look of things, everyone was just eager to go home for Christmas. The professors had no intention of dragging the day out any more than they had to.  
  
“It’s honestly ridiculous,” she went on, shuffling through her notes with ever-increasing ferocity. “What am I to tell my parents? Do we all get O’s? What are my final _marks_? Did you and I get the same marks as people like Crabbe and Goyle?”  
  
“Come now,” he said, “is it really so strange that they wait until the end of the year? That’s when the N.E.W.T’s and O.W.L’s happen, after all. What happens in the middle of the year? Nothing.”  
  
“We still ought to be aware of our progress. It’s a sham, is what it is.”  
  
Art snorted. “ _Please_. As if you haven’t been keeping a detailed log of your average marks since the first day of term.” When she narrowed her eyes at him, he grinned. “ _Oh yes_ , I’ve seen the color-coded spreadsheets. Don’t try and deny it.”  
  
“That’s— I don’t—” she sputtered for a second, before crossing her arms and looking away. “It doesn’t matter. I can’t show those to my parents.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Because they aren’t _official_ , it’s not coming from someone with authority. I don’t expect you to understand, since your father is somehow constantly aware of your marks. My parents are _muggles_ , so it’s different.”  
  
He shrugged. “If you say so.”  
  
There seemed to be a lull, in which Art was prepared to let silence reign.  
  
It turned out he was quite alone in this.  
  
“Now that you mention it,” she said, just sort of sitting there, nonchalantly shuffling her notes around. “I’m not sure you’re appreciating the irony of teasing me for keeping secret notes and ideas to myself, after that argument about your notes on those _club ideas_.”  
  
Art shuddered, remembering all too well their last conversation about secrets. It had come dangerously close to being emotional and heartfelt. No. This was _not_ a can of worms he was willing to dive into at the present time. Better to deflect, and talk about literally anything else.  
  
Asking about her spreadsheets ought to do it.  
  
“The club thing? A flight of fancy. Barely cobbled-together mess of a half-baked idea. Hardly worth mentioning. Not nearly as important as grade spreadsheets, I assure you. How are you able to find the time to track all of your grades like that? There’s a thorough and lengthy explanation about that process somewhere, I’d wager.”  
  
In his experience, Hermione had two responses to him deflecting. She would either fall for it, or she wouldn’t. Now, in retrospect, this might not seem worth mentioning at all, but it had sounded very profound in Art’s head.  
  
Hermione looked up, a triumphant gleam in her eyes that spelled trouble.  
  
“Then you _are_ trying to make a club!”  
  
Art did not have a reply ready. To buy himself time, he spent a long time staring at her forehead, until she started to shift uneasily. Eventually, the perfect excuse came to him.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Maybe it wasn’t so perfect. Art would never claim to be a great improviser.  
  
“Oh,” Hermione said, deflating somewhat.  
  
“ _Oh?_ You sound disappointed,” he said, frowning at her. “That’s the answer you wanted, right?”  
  
She glared at him. “There wasn’t a specific answer I had in mind… Just an honest one.”  
  
“I’m an open book, just ask anyone.”  
  
“In that case, it’s reassuring that you’re willing to be forthright with me, I suppose,” she trailed off, ducking her head away slightly. “I just expected you to put up more of a fight, that’s all.”  
  
“I’m flattered, I am, that you hold me to such a standard.” Art stood up, stretching with a luxurious sigh. “If it’s any consolation, I tried very hard to come up with an excuse. My mind just wasn’t having it.”  
  
“You’re usually quicker than that.”  
  
“ _Ouch_ ,” he said, clutching his chest. “Harsh words, Hermione. No doubt I would have been up to the challenge, if not for those end of term exams. Exhausting, weren’t they?”  
  
She gathered her notes and books into her bag, muttering darkly.  
  
They left the library at a leisurely pace. Art hummed the tune of _‘My Favorite Things’_ and shoved his hands in his pockets. Hermione went on a subdued rant about holding troublemakers accountable for poor marks, and stopped just short of calling out Ron by name.  
  
She stopped short, then stopped altogether as she turned to glare at Art.  
  
“You keep trying to distract me!”  
  
“Dagnabbit, foiled again.”  
  
“ _Artorius_ ,” she whined, “would you please give me a straight answer for once? It’s the season of miracles and generosity. So think generous thoughts and give me what I want.”  
  
That level of snarkiness, it almost brought a tear to his eye.  
  
Truly, Art was a gifted teacher.  
  
“Very well,” Art said, with an air of holiday spirit that wasn’t exaggerated at all. “Hermione, your words have warmed the depths of my heart, which has now grown three sizes. Behold, for our tale begins on a dark and stormy— oh, don’t be like that. _Hermione_ , wait up!”  
  
Art half walked, half ran after her. With his hands still in his pockets, it looked really lame, so she had better appreciate the effort.  
  
“Fine, I’ll give you the whole story, proper this time.” He took a deep breath, blocking out the rest of his snark for the moment. “I wanted to learn some extra magic, and Snape swooped in and was like ‘ _Crouch, you handsome genius you, you are not allowed to do magic in abandoned classrooms_ ’. So I asked him, I did, I said ‘ _Professor Snape, is there a way I can_ get _permission?_ ’”  
  
“Professor Snape doesn’t sound like that,” Hermione sniped, trying her best to sound annoyed while still smiling at his lifelike impression of the man. “What’s more, must you really do an equally low-effort impression of yourself?”  
  
“Hush, I’m telling the story,” he said, waving her off. “Like I was saying, he raised up his cloak like this, and said in a mysterious voice, ‘ _there are ways. Secret ways. Clubs, formed by students. I will never allow you to create one, of course, because I am just the worst_ ’ because he hates me, you see.”  
  
“Of course.” She nodded seriously, no doubt entranced in Art’s storytelling.  
  
“Eventually I managed to get a name out of him, but it was a close thing, ‘ _The Greco Sleco_ ,’ he croaked, at long last, ‘ _a really old and really boring book, long thought lost to the ages. But it was never lost, I merely hid it in my closet because I am a killjoy and hate it when students have any fun’._ ”  
  
“Were you able to get it, then?”  
  
“Of course I got it,” he said, crossing his arms in indignation. “What do you take me for? Snape folded faster than a deck of playing cards. Now, are you satisfied with my answers? I’m hungry, and this conversation is making me fear for the future.”  
  
Hermione drew back at that, looking affronted. “Why is that? All I’m doing is trying to talk to you about your ideas. This club thing, which you’ve now spent quite a while planning and theorizing… It seemed like something you might be having trouble with, and I _wanted_ to help you figure it out.”  
  
“I— that’s nice of you,” he said, somewhat caught off guard by her earnestness. “But I’m really not sure it would do anything. Even if I figured it out, Snape would just tell me off.”  
  
“Honestly,” she huffed in frustration, “if you would just _talk to me_ for a minute, and stop trying to distract and _lie_ to me, I would offer to take it to Professor McGonagall and she would say _yes._ Because she’s reasonable and I’m reliable.”  
  
There was a pause. It wasn’t awkward. Not for Hermione, at least.  
  
“Huh,” he said slowly, eyes firmly on the ceiling. “That _could_ work.”  
  
She snorted but didn’t respond, too focused on glaring a hole into his head.  
  
“ _Sooo…_ Could you—?”  
  
“No,” she said airily, turning away and crossing her arms. “At least, not right now. I’m good and annoyed now, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”  
  
“Right, yes,” he said, looking down and shuffling his feet a bit, “I did notice that. Sorry.”  
  
Before either of them had the chance to get another extended pause underway, Hermione cut it off by groaning and turning to look at him again. “Oh, don’t look so defeated. I’m annoyed, not angry. But I expect you to be on your best behavior from now on. Else I’ll start ignoring you, or something.”  
  
Art nodded solemnly, still a bit abashed.  
  
At the same time, he found himself suppressing laughter. Oh, how the turns tabled. It honestly spoke to how much things had changed, that ignoring him now came across as a legitimate threat from Hermione.  
  
Once she was done lecturing him, she set off to go and make sure she had her things ready to leave. Again. For the fifth time. And again, Art felt extraordinarily lucky that he didn’t have to pack his shit. It was exhausting to even hear about the process, and boy oh boy did he hear about it.  
  
“That went well,” he deadpanned to no one, because he was now by himself.  
  
“Mission re _—_ _ack!_ ”  
  
“ _Motherfucker!_ ” he shrieked, whirling and punching Draco in the stomach.  
  
It took a few minutes, but Draco eventually managed to pull himself off of the floor. Art would have helped, but he was annoyed and didn’t want to. After an entirely unreasonable amount of whining and complaining from Draco, the two of them made their way down to the dungeons, where his mission debriefing could take place.

***

“I hereby call this meeting of the Slytherin first years to order,” Draco declared from atop his throne. The throne had several cushions stacked on a chair, which made him look a bit taller. “Before we get to today’s business, please join me in reciting our pledge. Repeat after me, if you would.”  
  
With that, the lot of them all stood and faced the house banner in the room. Holding their wands to their hearts, they all looked hilarious. It was so bad. Art gleefully joined in.  
  
“With this wand, I pledge my loyalty to Slytherin. With this pledge, I am superior to everyone else, but especially Harry Potter and his worthless friends.”  
  
 _Huh_. Well, it did capture the essence of the house.  
  
“Wrote it myself, no need to drool,” Draco said, looking particularly smug. “Now, it’s the last day of term so I won’t keep you long. Our first and only topic of discussion is to finalize the fate of Artorius Cacori—” he stopped, looking down at a bit of parchment and squinting. “Caecor— Caciria—”  
  
Art cringed internally and said, “Gods, just stop butchering it and move on.”  
  
“Right,” Draco said, awkwardly clearing his throat. “Artorius Crouch. Pansy, do us a favor and remind us all what he’s being charged with.”  
  
Even Pansy looked bored and very much past caring, but she indulged him.  
  
“Hanging out with that one annoying Gryffindor girl.”  
  
“Thank you, that was… Succinctly put. Before we proceed, if the accused would _finally_ provide us with her full name, we can settle this matter.” Draco leaned forward, trying to look intimidating. “You _did_ succeed in your mission, I trust?”  
  
Art nodded. “Of course. After much subtle skullduggery and sinister scheming, I was able to ascertain her middle name, yes.” His peers around him went deadly silent. Here it was, the moment of truth. He took a deep breath and delivered. “Hermione Granger’s middle name is… _Dorothy_.”  
  
The room exploded with relieved cheers, and there was much rejoicing.  
  
Despite his regal posturing, Draco also looked as if a great burden had been lifted. “At last, we have it. Hermione _Dorothy_ Granger, a properly foolish name for someone like her. Well done, _well done_! You’ve done a great thing for this committee, going undercover like that, and we shall not soon forget it.”  
  
Snapping to a crisp salute, Art shook his head. “It was an honor to serve the committee, Mr. Chairman.”  
  
“Is that it? Are we done?” Theo asked, his voice echoing around them. “Can we go now?”  
  
Draco winced but shook his head. “Not quite yet, we still need to handle his sentencing.”  
  
Just like that, the groans were back.  
  
“Oh come _on_ Draco,” Blaise whined, pinching his nose. “It’s bad enough he had to debase himself, being seen socializing with a Gryffindor, and a muggleborn as well. Anything more would just be cruel.”  
  
“But… B— but that was the charge in the first place,” Draco cried defensively, throwing his hands into the air. “We can’t just let him get away with it!”  
  
“Why not? We’re Slytherins, getting away with stuff is the point.”  
  
That seemed to stump the chairman for a few seconds, before he slumped in defeat. “ _Fine_. As a sign of our appreciation for your cooperation in this… Investigation.” He paused, no doubt wishing he had a more diverse vocabulary. “We will be merciful, and remove this incident from your record. At the very least, you can stop hanging out with Granger all the time.”  
  
Just as everyone started gearing up to leave again, Art interjected. “Are you sure that’s smart, Draco?”  
  
“Of _course_ it’s smart,” Draco snapped, clearly fed up with how the investigation had turned out. “There’s no good reason for you to keep hanging out with her. Unless you _like_ being friends with a filthy muggleborn?”  
  
Ooh. Not cool, Draco. Can’t call a brother out like that. Art saw a few of his peers frowning, and cursed to himself. Better get to deflecting before the room started turning against him.  
  
“What I _meant_ ,” he started, deliberately not answering the question. “Is that it’d be a waste to throw this away now. Weeks and weeks of work, building trust and getting them to let their guards down. I stop now, we won’t ever have an in with Gryffindor. No insider information. We’d be flying blind.”  
  
“Shouldn’t be flying at all, if you ask me,” Blaise muttered. He was ignored, since nobody asked him.  
  
Draco’s face scrunched up. “Wait, you mean like a mole?”  
  
“Moles are gross. I mean more like a spy,” Art said, doing his best to sound serious. “It’s just like you said, Draco. A snake in lion's clothing. It’s really a great idea, never would have thought of it myself.”  
  
There was a short pause, where it looked like Draco was about to deny it.  
  
“ _You_ thought of that, Draco? Wow, that’s clever.”  
  
“I knew you had to be good for something.”  
  
“How do you spell—”  
  
“Shush, we’re talking about Draco’s plan. Go on then, Draco. Tell us!”  
  
Shockingly, everyone was excited to hear all about Draco’s genius plan. Draco, never one to miss an opportunity to boast and cultivate his popularity, beamed and sat up a bit straighter. Predictable as ever, and Art meant that in the least hurtful way possible.  
  
“Yes, my plan. It’s pure genius, of course. Nothing you lot could ever come up with. The genius is in how simple it is. So simple, and yet still so very genius. No one will even suspect a thing, that’s how genius it is. And subtle, too. Very subtle. With a mind like mine, anything is simple to figure out. So is this. Simple, but genius.”  
  
There was a very pregnant pause. Draco was starting to sweat, perhaps realizing that he was saying a lot of nothing. Everyone else? Pure befuddlement.  
  
Wasn’t Draco’s father some sort of political aficionado? How could this happen?  
  
“In conclusion, the plan is what Slytherin is all about. That's how I came up with it, seeing as I'm the best Slytherin.”  
  
“It’s a great plan, Draco,” Art said at the end, easily feigning an impressed demeanor. He started clapping. “It really is genius. So simple, even a moron could understand it.”  
  
There, that ought to do it.  
  
Slowly, the rest of them joined in on the clapping. They were all just as confused as before, if not more so. But now? No one was about to admit they were a moron. Classic naked emperor syndrome, or whatever it was called.  
  
Genius, really.  
  
After that, the meeting kind of fizzled out. Draco stormed out of the room with Pansy hot on his trail. Goyle went and stood next to Crabbe, who would be taking down the minutes until the end of time. Blaise went to go find Theo, who had slipped out at some point with no one noticing. Millicent wasn’t there, since Draco had given up on forcing her to show up after she decked him. Tracy left to go do whatever Tracy did when no one was around. Finally, Daphne took some time to glare at Art before also starting to leave.  
  
Struck by a sudden bout of curiosity, Art walked over to her.  
  
She saw him coming and opened her mouth, no doubt planning to tell him off in that confusing roundabout fancy speak of hers.  
  
Art quickly cut her off. “Are you a big fan of tabletop role-playing games?”  
  
Her mouth snapped shut, and she tensed right up.  
  
“I’m not judging or anything,” he said quickly, not trying to get into another god's damned argument. “Just curious, is all. I thought you were just into fantasy at first.”  
  
At first, she didn’t respond. She quickly looked around the room, but the only other people there were Crabbe and Goyle. Goyle was silently watching Crabbe write, and Crabbe wasn’t actually writing at the moment. He was just staring at his parchment.  
  
Once she was satisfied, she leaned in closer.  
  
“Do you play—” she broke off with a flinch, briefly looking around again. She continued in a low tone of voice. “Rather, are you the sort who partakes in the rolling of dice and the acting out of roles, for the purpose of fantastical escapism?”  
  
It sounded like she was trying to sell him drugs.  
  
“Sure,” he said with a shrug.  
  
Whatever. Art would take what he could get when talking to this girl.

***

Leaning against a wall in the entrance hall, Art surveyed all that existed within his domain. Students, mostly. All of them mulling about nearby, chattering excitedly about what plans they had for the holidays.  
  
“Looks like it's time for the cool kids to go home for winter break,” he said, idly snapping his fingers.  
  
“Looks like it,” Draco said with a slow nod, adding nothing to the conversation. After a few seconds, he seemed to realize as much, clearing his throat to say something else. “I feel sorry for anyone stuck here for Christmas, don’t you? Sad. Not even their families want to see them. Pathetic, honestly.”  
  
Oh. He was just looking for an excuse to tease Harry. That also made sense. Harry and Ron scowled at Draco from the other side of the room. Once they noticed Art, they scowled at him as well. Guilty by association.  
  
Damn it all, time to defuse the situation.  
  
“Oh, Draco, that reminds me. My father sent me a letter, and it seems I’m stuck here for the Christmas holiday. I’ll be sure to have your gift owled to you.”  
  
There, an awkward silence. Much better.  
  
“Right… What I meant to say is… That’s, uh… ” he said, rubbing his neck as his words turned into incoherent mumbles.  
  
He wandered off a few seconds later.  
  
Once Draco had gone, Harry and Ron walked over to ask how his day was going.  
  
“How come you’re staying here?” Ron demanded. “Nothing better to do?”  
  
“What makes you think it was my decision?” Art said, inspecting his fingernails.  
  
Harry shrugged. “You don’t seem terribly broken up about it.”  
  
“I guess I’m not,” he said with a yawn. “But not to worry, friends and comrades. I’m just pumped and thrilled to be spending the next two weeks hamming it up buddy buddy bad company style with the two of you.”  
  
Ron crossed his arms and harrumphed. “We’re not friends, Crouch. Best remember that.”  
  
“Are we not? Shame, Professor McGonagall says I need more friends.”  
  
“Aren’t you already friends with that one Hermione girl?” Ron asked, before hastily adding, “What’s more, why is _our_ head of house giving you friendship advice?”  
  
Art snorted. “Who else would I get it from, Professor Snape?”  
  
That would be hilarious, actually.  
  
“And if you must know, then yes, he _is_ friends with that one Hermione girl,” Hermione said, announcing her presence from behind them. “Not that that’s any business of yours, Ronald.”  
  
Ron seemed ready to deliver a scathing retort until Harry elbowed him. After a heated exchange of whispers, and a few not-so-subtle head jabs in Hermione’s direction, Ron groaned and offered her a handshake.  
  
“Sorry ‘bout all that teasing business from before,” he said, his face turning red as he looked away. “Unjust and uncalled for, it was. Won’t never happen again.”  
  
“Double negative,” Art coughed under his breath.  
  
Hermione frowned, looking skeptical at the olive branch. Slowly, she reached out and shook his hand. “ _Fine_ … But don’t think I’ll let you copy my homework just because you agreed to be a better person.”  
  
“I can do my own homework, thanks,” he said, somewhat grumpily. Then he perked up. “Although… Now that you mention it, it might do us some good if Harry an’ I could pick your brain about something. Been having a rough go of it, and we was wondering if you’d ever heard of a Nic—”  
  
Art chose that moment to jump in, clearing his throat as loudly and obnoxiously as possible. “Hold it right there, Ronny-boy. Can’t let you get some vague research project into Hermione’s head. I have a hard enough time getting her out of the library as is.”  
  
Ron’s shoulders slumped and he shared a hopeless look with Harry, but he didn’t respond.  
  
And Hermione, though she looked slightly put out, chose not to argue the point.  
  
She pursed her lips, glancing over at Art, clearly deep in thought. Then she sighed. “While we’re here, and for what it’s worth… I am _also_ sorry, for treating you like a fool… A simpleton, a right waste of—”  
  
“ _Oi_ , this supposed to be an apology?”  
  
She flushed and coughed. “Yes, sorry again. I just— I wasn’t trying to come off as… Superior, or anything.”  
  
D’aww, she _had_ remembered.  
  
“S’fine,” Ron mumbled, looking awfully bashful as he rubbed the back of his head.  
  
“Friendship, how delightful,” Art said, clasping his hands together and sighing in wonderment. “This does mean the two of you are friends now, right? I’m not crazy?”  
  
The two of them jolted, immediately putting distance between them.  
  
“ _Of course not_ , don’t be absurd!” Hermione hissed.  
  
Ron nodded, making sure to scowl at Art again. “We’re square, but that’s all it is.”  
  
Then he took it a step further, stalking his way back to the great hall.  
  
Oh well. Back to the drawing board on that one.  
  
“Well, that’s… Uh, you have a good holiday, Hermione,” Harry said, offering a little wave before trailing after his friend. Art made sure to wave back, but Harry didn’t even turn around to see it, so it was really kind of pointless in the end.  
  
Hermione turned to him once Harry had gone. “What was that all about? I didn’t think you knew either of them all that well.”  
  
“Only in passing. What can I say? No one can resist my good looks and winning personality.”  
  
“In that case, you’ll have plenty of time to get to know them better over the holidays,” she said, sounding suspiciously casual about it. “I suppose if it keeps you from hiding in your room the entire time, we can count it as a net positive.”  
  
Wait, what was she talking about? Being productive, over the _holidays_? As if. Art planned on catching up on some much-needed beauty sleep, and no two-bit protagonists were about to keep it away from him.  
  
“Sure,” he said lamely.  
  
A pointed look from Hermione assured him she wasn’t fooled. To distract her from the subject, he opened his bag and pulled out the fabled tome of repeated rules and redundant regulations. With a flourish, he tossed it at her and cackled as she flailed to catch it. No wonder Snape had done that before.  
  
“Happy Christmas, Hermione,” he said, feeling very pleased with himself. “There’s no little red bow, but it’s still a book, and that’s gotta count for something.”  
  
“This is it, then?” she wondered out loud, inspecting the book with a complicated expression. Most expressions _were_ complicated, but this one especially so. “ _The Greco Sleco_. I take it this means you’ve finally come around to letting me help?”  
  
Art waved her off. “If you want. Don’t feel obligated or anything. This here is more of a flag of truce; a heartfelt apology on account of prior evasiveness. Also, try not to look so conflicted. I’ll still think of a gift to send for Christmas proper.”  
  
“Apology accepted then, since it seems that’s what we’re all doing,” she said, before narrowing her eyes at him. “I was _not_ looking conflicted.”  
  
“If you say so,” he said with a grin, interlocking his hands behind his head.  
  
With that, she took the opportunity to talk his ear off about her reading list for over the holiday, how they should restructure the study blocks after getting back, what spells they should read ahead on, if he thought Snape would start lightening up in class soon, and how he should really stop nodding along and just pretending to listen as she talked since it was very inconsiderate and _honestly_ , Artorius.  
  
“Hey there Art… Hermione,” Neville said as he wandered over. “Long time no see… I heard you two were friends now, but to be honest it didn’t make a load of sense.”  
  
Art decided to play it cool, at least until he was sure Neville was on the up and up. “Sure, we get along alright. You’re not here to apologize, are you?”  
  
That brought him up short. “ _A-apologize_? But I didn’t do anything, did I?”  
  
“It’s a theme, don’t question it.”  
  
“Ignore him, Neville, he’s just trying to confuse you.”  
  
Before he could deliver a sick comeback, he noticed his mean and no fun cousin Susan giving him the evil eye. Which seemed unfair, since Neville was the one who came over first. No matter, he couldn’t count on her to be reasonable. This was likely the precursor to a bunch of nagging.  
  
As he began inching away, Hermione squinted at him. “Where are you going?”  
  
“My cousin is over there, contemplating murder,” he said, nodding in her general direction. “I’m gonna split before she has the chance.”  
  
“Susan wouldn’t do that,” Neville said, aghast at the mere thought of it. “W-wouldn’t hurt a fly, I don’t think. She’s nothing but nice, ask anyone.”  
  
“In other circumstances, I would agree. But you have to understand, she hates me.”  
  
Hermione scoffed. “Dare I ask why?”  
  
“Because she’s mean and she started it, even if she says otherwise.”  
  
Shifting uncomfortably, Neville looked away and coughed. “Well… She told me you burned her braid off, when you was little. Is that why?”  
  
“Right, I _may_ have started it.”


	10. Chapter Ten

Art awoke with a gasp, lurching upright in his bed, wand at the ready and frantically scanning his surroundings for Draco, Blaise, or any of those other creeps. After a few seconds, his mind slowly sputtered to life. Everyone was gone.

“No one here,” he said, lowering his wand with a sigh. “Of course there’s no one here, it’s the holiday. Get it together, man.”

He rubbed at his eyes, trying to rub the fatigue away. There was no real reason to get up, was there? No homework due at the end of the day, no study sessions scheduled at ungodly hours, and no one to stop him from sleeping his vacation away. The idea alone was mesmerizing.

Then his stomach decided to gurgle. He groaned.

“Just a short nap,” he mumbled, already closing his eyes and pulling the covers back up.

Another gurgle, this one far especially violent.

Why? Just… Why.

One more gurgle.

“Fine, fine _, fine_. Food first, then sleep,” he whined, throwing aside the covers and crawling out of bed, onto the floor, and towards his trunk. It was really rather pathetic, and he was glad no one was around to witness it.

Art sluggishly pulled a mint green jumper over his pajama top and kicked his feet into some slippers.

“Should I stand up?” he wondered aloud. “I probably should. Get to breakfast faster…”

For a few minutes, he just sat there staring at the floor with eyes half-lidded.

“Time to move, let’s go.”

Then a few minutes more.

“Upsy daisy.”

Just a bit longer.

“Up an’ at 'em.”

He’d get there someday.

***

After a long and arduous journey, Art made it to the great hall. In fact, it was _so_ arduous and long, that he knew in his heart he would not be going back to sleep anytime soon. Tragic, yet unavoidable. This knowledge did not stop him from feeling wretchedly tired all the same.

Unsurprisingly, there were very few people present. There was literally one other person at the Slytherin table. A cagey brunette with her hair in a bun, sixth year by the look of her. The two of them exchanged customary scowls. By unspoken agreement, they kept to opposite ends of the table and did not speak.

Art sat down with a sigh, bit into some toast with jam, and brooded.

Gods above, he missed coffee.

Even after all this time, he missed it _so much_. But there was nothing for it, he couldn’t risk stunting his growth. He was short enough as it was. All he could do was hope and pray for an early onset of puberty. Then he could relapse into his caffeine addiction without fear. Until then?

Ice water.

Why ice water? Because pumpkin juice was a blight against mankind, and he would fight anyone who claimed otherwise. Had fought, in the case of Theo, that smarmy wanker. As for tea, he was saving that for when he was older. It would be ironclad proof of how mature he was.

For a while he was content to just sit there, nibbling on his toast and glaring at the empty space in front of him. He made sure to ignore anyone trickling in and out of the hall. Professors, students, whoever. All fifteen or so of them. Hagrid, whose mere footsteps were impossible to miss, showed up at one point with yet _another_ tree. Art at least made sure to glare at him.

By the time he managed to convince his body to not go back to sleep, he was feeling _great._

Phenomenal, even.

The reality of the situation had only now dawned on him.

He was _alone_. By himself. Free to do whatever his heart desired.

Would he explore the hidden cracks and crevices of the castle? Would he venture out into the snow? Maybe he would track down Harry and Ron and stalk them until they did something exciting, or convince them to get on with the plot already.

The possibilities were _limitless_.

After a second, Art broke out into muffled laughter.

“Oh, that’s too good,” he said, wiping a tear from his eye. “Oh, god.”

For the entirety of Christmas vacation, Art would take it upon himself to accomplish as little as possible. No one was around, so there was no one to guilt him into doing unnecessary garbage. No one forcing him to read more than he had to. No one complaining about Potter, Weasley, Hermione, or anyone else.

Paradise on Earth.

***

Just over a week later, the day before Christmas, Art admitted defeat.

He tried, but it was just _too_ boring.

To his credit, he lasted a whole three days before cracking under the pressure. First, he blew through his holiday reading list, although he would vehemently deny as much to Hermione when she asked and didn’t believe him. After that, he poured his soul into the extra credit Astronomy essay on the true meaning of Christmas in regards to the North star at this particular time of year.

At this point he was desperate enough to walk around the castle in the early morning, practicing his unlocking charm on anything with a lock until he found something worth looking at.

So that’s what he did.

“I hate that I’m doing this,” he said, walking up to the next door in the corridor. “Nobody is around, and I’m just wandering and talking nonsense to myself, like an asshole. Whole lot of Christmas spirit up in this joint. _Alohomora._ ”

Opening the door, he peeked in the room for a second.

“Another barren classroom, great. Hogwarts is using like, a fraction of its potential space. Hard times in magical Britain, the galleon’s worth ain’t what it used to be. Teachers can’t earn a fair wage.”

Moving to the next door, he waved his wand again.

“ _Alohomoroa._ Indoor forest? Weird, but not the weirdest I’ve seen.” He sighed, shutting and locking the door once more. “It’s not like I like being around people. People suck. _Kids_ suck. No disputing it at all. I hate people, and talking to people, and being around people, and existing in the same general vicinity of people.”

Art paused for a second, frowning.

“Right, that’s a bit melodramatic. If I hated being around people, I wouldn’t be talking about it so much. It’s possible that I’m just lonely and trying to make excuses to make myself feel better.”

He froze. This was bad. This was starting to sound like a personal revelation.

Sprinting down the hall, he quickly hissed, “ _Alohomora, alohomora, alohomora._ _Alhomoron._ Shit. That spell is hard to say really fast. Take it slow and easy, make sure to do each syllable, and don’t think about emotions and garbage like that. _Al-oh-ho-more-uh_.”

The next one unlocked easily, like a charm. Nice. He exhaled noisily.

Opening it, he poked his head in and out before locking it up again. “Right, just a trap door and a Cerberus. Cool, cool.”

But really, Art wasn’t lonely. Not at all. Maybe things were a bit dry and boring around here without all the students, and he kind of missed going to class and zoning out during lectures and it was pretty fun to talk and banter with Hermione or trade barbs with Draco. But he was fine, honestly. So what if he was too restless to laze around, that was just biology. Kids had a lot of energy, and he had to find some way to use it.

Hence why he was walking around, looking into random rooms.

“Oh, look. Another random room full of useless shit,” he said, scowling at the storage room. “This floor just doesn’t have any fun rooms. The only sort of interesting one was with that great big dog. Maybe I should try the fourth floor.”

It actually took him a few more minutes of aimless wandering and dejected muttering before he stopped. He frowned, parsing through his memories of the past few minutes, wondering what had set him off, before he finally realized what he had said.

“A _Cerberus…_ ” he said slowly, almost tasting the word.

They weren’t exactly the most exotic of magical creatures. Nor were they all that dangerous, if you knew how to handle them. But the same could be said of any sort of creature. If you knew the tips and tricks, it was child's play.

Art did _not_ know the tips and tricks. All he knew was that getting gnawed apart by the massive jaws of the canine hydra sitting in that room was perhaps the worst idea he had come up with all day. But it was also his _only_ idea.

Decisions, decisions.

“I’m not good at making decisions on my own,” he said, crossing his arms and scowling. “I need Hermione, or someone of equal intelligence, to bounce ideas off of.”

A strange thing to admit, really. The only reason he was saying it now was because he was alone. And frankly, the silence was starting to get a little weird.

Art groaned. “I’m so _out of practice_. I need a sounding board. This is such a nightmare.”

That was the issue, really. Everyone with a mind worthy of banter— and the rest of them, had all gone home. Because _they_ had loving families who missed them and wanted to see them and lavish them in love and presents. Technically, he _could_ go and ask a professor. If he was an idiot. Art was _not_ an idiot. Not in his opinion, at any rate. If they knew he’d been skulking around, purposefully looking for trouble… Well, that wasn’t quite the type of trouble he was looking for.

That left the question; who left at the castle was worth a damn?

He immediately excluded Hagrid, even though he may have been the best person to ask. Art was extremely adept at holding a grudge, and he’d be damned if Hagrid didn’t deserve it. He probably didn’t, but Art was also extremely adept at stubbornness. The two skills went hand in hand, really.

And again, professors were just a bad idea all around.

The only ones left were the students. Kind of obvious, but Art had been avoiding the obvious solution for a reason. He didn’t actually _know_ any of them. He could possibly introduce himself, but… Well, the mere thought of it made him almost as uncomfortable as maintaining his solitude.

But what choice did he have? Again, that choice was obvious. Muster up the courage to talk to one of the students still at school, or return to his eternal slumber and continue being really really bored.

Art decided to go and get breakfast. He had no plan of action, after all.

If nothing else, it would be a good time to scope out potential targets.

That sounded strange, but whatever.

“Honestly,” he muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets and stalking towards the great hall. “Pretty sure I barely even know any of their names.”

***

“That statement aged poorly,” Art said dryly, looking across the table at Ron and Harry.

That one Slytherin sixth year from before glanced over from beside him, but didn’t respond. That was fair. He hadn’t been talking to her, after all.

The silver lining of talking to himself was that no one could call him out on his stupid ramblings. They were really only stupid on account of _not_ having that sounding board. But that was beside the point.

Point being; he actually knew, or at least recognized, all of the remaining Gryffindors at the school. Ron and Harry were easy. Then there was Ron’s brother Percy, who hadn’t shown up yet. Finally, there were those other two gingers who also hadn’t shown up yet. They too looked related to Ron, but _especially_ related to each other.

Not in a weird way. They were just identical, or something.

It had come as quite the unpleasant surprise when he’d arrived for breakfast, only to find that there was only one table for everyone to share.

When asked why the hell anyone thought this was a good idea, in kinder words spoken by someone else, Dumbledore smiled that grandfatherly smile and claimed that the holidays were a time for good company and good cheer.

“It would be more than a little odd, I think,” he said slowly, spreading his arms to gesture to them all. “For us to sit so far apart, when so few of us are here. Christmas is about coming _together_ , and this accomplishes that nicely. Don’t you all agree?”

Of course, Art had wisened up to this sort of thing by now.

It was obvious, once he thought about it. Dumbledore was too feeble and elderly to be the puppet master here. Not to mention how many cliches that fed into.

No. The true power behind the throne was McGonagall.

Art hadn’t put it together until she had tricked him into living a more social life. Now he could only look back and scoff at past self’s naivety. McGonagall was a cunning foe. For years she had likely been pushing her secret Gryffindor agenda along to Dumbledore from the shadows. _Deputy Headmistress_. What a joke. Dumbledore was a figurehead.

Hermione called it a senseless conspiracy theory, but her opinion was biased.

And that meant that he was right and she was wrong.

In retrospect, it was sorta inevitable that he had ended up annoying her. Even her patience had limits. He would make sure to constantly toe that line in the future, for the good of all mankind.

Before he could get too lost in thought, an owl swooped into the hall and landed in front of him.

Strange. It was carrying something shaped like a book. A _large_ book. Had Hermione finally snapped and sent him an encyclopedia?

Dumbledore smiled. “Ah, it seems someone’s generous giving spirit couldn’t wait any longer.”

“So it would seem,” Snape said, narrowing his eyes at the parcel that had arrived. “Any explanation, Crouch? Hasn’t your father been informed that gifts are only for Christmas? Or would this be yet another instance of blatant disregard for our rules?”

“It’s a late Hanukkah present,” Art said lamely, just to be difficult.

“Oh?” he said with a sneer. “I wasn’t aware the Crouch family observed that holiday.”

Art snorted and stuck his nose up. He never observed _any_ holidays, least of all with his father. But antagonizing Snape was just too fun to pass up.

“We can’t all be righteous, god-fearing Catholics.”

“That’s enough of that,” McGonagall said, clearing her throat slightly. “Despite what you may think, Mr. Crouch. Christmas doesn’t serve a religious function at this school.”

Well, that was a can of worms if Art had ever heard one.

Tempting fate, he stared at her with wide, innocent eyes. “What function _does_ it serve, then?”

“It’s tradition, of course. Many holidays have lost their original meanings over the years.”

Right. _Tradition_. Art had heard that excuse more than one time for the various nonsensical things the wizarding world chose to do. Like quidditch, which was an amazing fluke, and this. Fine, it was just those two, but there were probably more examples somewhere.

“No need for such formality, Minerva,” Dumbledore said, probably deciding that this was becoming too weird. Art could relate. “Christmas is a time of generosity and love. A time to appreciate family and friends. Many holidays can be said to be similar, these days. And what more reason could we ask for?”

Way to defuse that strange tension in the air.

He may be a figurehead, but Dumbledore had his own way with words.

With that, everyone went back to eating. Or sulking in Snape’s case, subtle as it was to the untrained eye.

“You gonna open it?” Ron asked from across the table.

 _Almost_ everyone went back to eating, that is. Art narrowed his eyes at him.

He nearly told Ron to sod off straight away, but then he caught himself. This… _Technically_ counted as conversation, didn’t it? It did. Ron was hardly someone Art considered witty, or well-spoken. But desperation did strange things to the mind. That was the excuse Art would be using, at least.

“What do you care?” he said, answering the question with a question of his own. “It’s probably a _book_. That’s the last thing I’d expect you to be excited by.”

“I’m not _excited_ ,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Just seems strange, is all. Besides, been more than a little dry around here.”

Art sighed. “On that, we can agree.”

Ron once again gestured at the package. “Is it really from your da?”

Foolish little Weasley, of course it wasn’t. Still, the package was a proper mystery. Not a revolutionary one, but interesting enough to warrant his full attention. Although that wasn’t saying much. On the off chance that it _was_ from his father, Art mentally prepared himself for a ghastly trap.

Feeding a piece of bread to the owl, he tried to eye it a bit more critically. It wasn’t the family owl. He hadn’t seen this one before, but that wasn’t saying much. The ministry had legions of the bastards at its command, after all.

Reaching out and grabbing the parcel, he was mildly surprised to feel the insides shift as he moved it. Not an encyclopedia, then. It was a box, or something. And there were a number of smaller somethings inside.

What could it be? A trap from some unforeseen enemy? A riddle, hiding some horrible secret? Some mysterious benefactor had sent him an ancient artifact for safekeeping, perhaps.

“Go on then,” Ron said, fighting to speak through a particularly violent yawn. “The suspense is killing me.”

Art glared at him. Desperation or not, Ron still had to meet minimum expectations to be tolerated. He couldn’t just _open it_. He had to plan. Theorize and fantasize. Ron really needed to get with the program.

Bringing his attention back to the package, he sighed. Too late. The moment was ruined. And Ron was completely to blame. A tragedy, to be sure.

With that nifty excuse, Art ripped the wrapping aside.

Then he stopped, staring at the writing and artwork on the lid of the box.

Ron stared too. Although for him it involved more leaning forward and lifting his head, since he couldn’t see it from across the table.

“Well? What is it, then?” he said, perhaps taking Art’s silence for shock.

Ron was sharper than he looked. Not exactly difficult to achieve, but still. Art _was_ shocked. Confused. Befuddled. Maybe even flabbergasted. For that reason, he answered honestly before he could stop himself.

“It’s a game,” he said, his voice sounding distant to his own ears. Not that he cared. He was _far_ too distracted by the sudden onslaught of confusion and annoyance in his mind to give a shit about explaining things to Ron, who only looked more intrigued by Art’s barebones answer.

Barebones, but enough to capture the essence of it.

In his hands was the starter box for the tabletop roleplaying game, _Starships and Spellswords_.

And taped to the lid was a note.

Not a letter. A note. It checked out, and it made sense. Art and Daphne, for who else _could_ it be but Daphne, they were hardly on good enough terms to be sending each other letters.

Art picked up the note and opened it, already dreading the contents.

‘ _Artorius Crouch,_

 _As you are no doubt aware, we can hardly be said to be on good enough terms to be exchanging such trifles as letters. Or gifts, for that matter._

 _With that in mind, here you are being presented with a note, and a loan. A loan, but not a gift. It shall be returned unto my venerable house whenever most appropriate, unmarked as that date may yet be._

 _In the meantime, do take it upon yourself to become enriched in this world of fantasy and adventure, as well as learning the rules which govern it._

 _Furthermore, I have not yet managed to form a group, so you had better invite me once you set one up or I’ll write to your father._

 _This isn’t a gift, shut up._

 _Regards,  
Heiress of the Most Ancient and Noble Greengrass Family and Estate,  
Daphne Greengrass_

 _Post-Script: If anyone asks, this was your idea.’_

Well, it may as well have been a letter. It was definitely long enough for one, but all the words were written extremely close together. Whatever. Technically correct, the best kind of correct. Saving space and being petty; Do both at once with this one simple trick. Scientists hated her.

And honestly? Art was kinda starting to hate her as well.

“Hear that, Harry?” Ron said, stage-whispering to his slightly more endearing friend. “Crouch over there’s got a game for Christmas…”

Harry’s head, which had previously made berth by trying to indent itself into the table, slowly rose up. He blinked at Ron several times, clearly annoyed at having to involve himself with such a stupid conversation.

“... Whassat?” he said blearily, reaching behind his glasses to rub his eyes. “What are we saying? I just— Yes, right. Very odd, most peculiar.”

Then he broke off, yawning with even more power than Ron. If that was even possible.

Momentarily distracted, Art narrowed his eyes at the two of them. Catching up on lost sleep? Check. Rampant yawning? Double-check. Tired eyes? Quadruple-check. And among other things, an endless supply of useless things to say. He grinned.

“Late night, eh boys?”

Harry nodded, smiling sleepily. “You have no ide— _ow! Ron, stop that!_ ”

He scowled at Ron, who was now looking to the side and whistling innocently.

“Careful, Harry,” Ron said, keeping his voice casual. “Lots of nosy types around. Be a shame if something slipped out, an’ we get told off.”

That, along with Ron punching Harry in the shoulder, was enough to wake him up and bring him up to full alert. Harry turned and side-eyed Snape, who was currently cradling a steaming cup of tea and doing his best to set Hagrid’s beard ablaze with pure, concentrated willpower. As _if_ that would be enough to stop Hagrid from ranting about… Anything, really.

“What’s he got to do with it?” Art asked with a frown.

Ron snorted. “Right, of course. Let me just ignore my own advice and spill my guts to you, about him. He’s your head of house. Can’t trust you lot with anything.”

“Well that’s just rude. And completely untrue, mind you.”

Maybe not _completely_ , but still.

“I’ll take your word for it,” Ron said, shaking his head. He pointed at the box Art was still holding. “But enough of that, what’s that box about that’s got you all flustered? Not afraid of a little game, are you?”

Glancing between the two of them, Harry scrunched his nose up. “Is _that_ what you were going on about? Not sure why it couldn’t wait.”

“Sorry mate,” Ron said with a laugh. “Did I wake you?”

Harry crossed his arms and looked away. “Was just resting my eyes, is all.”

“Of course, of course.”

Ahh, a friendly back and forth. It was secondhand, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Vicarious living was a decent substitute.

“Let’s not change the subject,” Harry said, quickly shifting the spotlight back to Art. “What’s the game about, Artorius? Some type of board game?”

“It’s Art. Artorius makes me sound like a Roman general, or a fantasy knight.” Then he paused, scratching his chin. “Speaking of fantasy; this here is a roleplaying game. Either of you ever heard of those?”

Two tired faces stared blankly back at him.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Art muttered.

“I’ve heard of ‘em,” Percy said with a yawn of his own, sitting down next to Ron. His hair was an unruly mess, and he was still in his pajamas. But his prefect badge was, as always, pinned to his shirt and gleaming flawlessly. “Dabbled in them in my third year, but not with a box like that, and never with a proper set of rules.”

“Thanks Percy, good thing we asked you,” Ron said under his breath.

Percy, who had clearly heard him anyway, ignored him and went on. “What’s that one called then, Art? Something I might know?”

“I’d be wholly unsurprised if you did,” he said brightly. “New-fangled creation called Starships ‘n Spellswords. Saw it at the bookshop, buying first-year textbooks. Thought I’d try it out at some point.”

There. Daphne had better appreciate him taking the time and effort to lie on her behalf, by golly.

Harry peered over at the box, looking more confused than before.

“Starships?” he repeated, partly to himself. “Isn’t that science fiction? More of a normal— er, a muggle thing, isn’t it?”

Percy chose this moment to insert himself back into the discussion, clearing his throat. “I can answer that. In the muggle world, Harry, you would be right to call it science fiction. But I’m fairly sure that whatever this game means by ‘starships’ isn’t what you’re thinking of.” He looked over at Art expectantly. “Am I right?”

Deciding to indulge him, Art flipped the box over and skimmed over the description on the back.

“Go on then, read it out for us,” Ron said impatiently.

Art groaned. “ _Fine._ Hark and rejoice, heroes and cutthroats,” he said, making sure to keep his voice as bland as possible. “Have ye ever dreamt of exploring the galaxy, ever felt that call to adventure? Well here it be. Leave this world, and go to another entirely, then another after that. Sail the endless sea of space in your starship. Discover new worlds, meet new and exotic people, and face down otherworldly horrors and dastardly villains. With your Journey Master (JM) setting the stage for your custom Player Character (PC), embark on your own journey today.” Then he looked down at the bottom. “Warning. Choking hazards, keep away from children three and under. Not suitable for—”

“You can stop now,” Ron said.

Grumbling, Art shrugged and propped his chin upon his fist. Ron was no fun. He had only been planning on reading up to the trademark.

“So starships are like—” he started again, scratching the back of his head. “Like normal boats, but in space?”

Percy nodded, looking very pleased with himself. “Seems like it. It all sounds like a space pirate adventure, all mixed up with some other fantasy things.”

Giving the box art another cursory scan, Art couldn’t help but snort. Typical wizards. Honestly. Spaceships and high tech weapons? Far too unbelievable. Muggles must be mad. Better to just throw a few spells on a pirate ship and call it good. Oh yes, that was perfectly plausible.

Furthermore, wasn’t this just a Treasure Planet ripoff?

Before he could dwell on that any further, Harry just about exploded with excitement.

“We should all of us play,” he said quickly, now completely awake. “You’re looking for people to play with, right Art? Ron and I can be the player character people, and you can be the journey master.”

 _What_.

Wait a second. Hold on. Now wait just a goddamn minute.

Ron sounded equally skeptical. “Mate, you really want to spend Christmas Eve messing with a board game?”

“I suppose you’re right,” Harry said, shooting a knowing look at his friend. “I’d much rather spend it getting beaten at Wizarding Chess another dozen times.”

A beat of silence, then Ron flushed and looked away. “Right, fair play.”

This was getting out of hand. Now there were two of them.

“Calm down, lads,” Art said, raising his hands to head them off. “I wasn’t really planning on actually running a game… It was just a curiosity, is all. A strange new thing I wanted to have a look at. Sorry if I got your hopes up, but yeah…” Harry started to look very put out, and Art’s heart ached like the traitor it was. “And really, two people isn’t a very good group composition. We would have an awful time, no two ways about it, so we’re probably better off not even—”

A loud cough interrupted him.

The three of them looked over at Percy, who was now nonchalantly humming to himself and admiring the table decorations.

Noticing their stares, he raised an eyebrow. “Yes? Something you wanted to ask me?”

Art glared at him.

Ron glared at him.

Harry, the despicable wretch, practically beamed at him. “Would you like to be our third, Percy?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he said, almost instantly. Then he sat up straight and turned his nose up. “That is to say, I _suppose_ I could oblige you all by joining your little group. It’s probably for the best that one of the players be somewhat familiar with this sort of thing. Why, I might even be able to dredge up my old bag of dice. Oh, but I haven’t used them in ages. Did I even pack them this year? Perhaps—”

Percy broke off into a string of muttering. Art was horrified to see that he looked as excited as Harry, if not more so.

“That’s enough, right?” Harry said, turning back to Art. “Three should be good, yeah?”

Well, crap. This was actually starting to sound like a fun idea.

What’s more, Art knew that three was a perfectly fine group to run through one of these games. He knew it all too well. This wouldn’t even be his first time doing this, although obviously the ruleset was likely some sort of bizarro version of 5th edition… Or whatever edition currently existed.

Still, there was no sense giving in without a fight. He ought to at least put up a token resistance, play coy and hard to get, or else they would start expecting more out of him. And that just wouldn’t do. Not at all.

“Three is _barely_ passable,” Art drawled, doing his best Daphne impression while idly inspecting his nails. “As for a great talent like myself? I never even get out of bed for less than four. It’s a substandard experience, otherwise.”

"And how about five?"

"Oh, five must be best of all, I wager."

Art was about to reply, but then he paused.

Harry hadn’t said that, and Ron hadn’t been the one to reply. Nor was the opposite true.

Percy looked mortified. But it hadn’t been him, either.

Slowly, Art turned in his seat to see two identical gingers standing behind him. Tall and pale and looking almost smug, they may have been the last people Art wanted to see at that moment.

“Think you got it in one, George. Well done,” the one on the left said, giving a polite golf clap.

“Ah, Fred. You’re too kind.” The one on the right, George, gave a shallow bow. Then he looked back at Art and grinned. “Look at him, all frozen in shock and awe.”

“Positively blinded by our brilliance.”

“Absolutely waylaid by our wit.”

“Not to worry, baby snake. We tend to have that effect on people.”

“We have heard the call, miniature serpent,” Fred said, placing a hand on Art’s shoulder and nodding solemnly. “You can count on us, to do... Whatever it is that you all were planning to do when we walked up just now.”

Art took it all back. This was not a fun idea. It was bad. _Really_ bad.

In the end, it felt almost inevitable. Like the entropy and eventual heat death of the universe, just with a board game instead of the universe. But other than that it was basically the same thing.

Each time he brought up a hurdle or an excuse, someone would start talking again and render it _null_ and _void_.

Not enough time to set up an adventure? He had a starter box, so they could just follow along with whatever was there. Nowhere for them all to play? Dumbledore was happy to conjure a table for their group, placing it off to the side so as not to get in the way of decorations. He was f _ar too happy to do that._ Well even so, most of them didn’t know the rules. Oh, that was alright. They could learn! They were all of them quick studies, so it wouldn’t be too hard. No dice? Just use the starter dice, and share Percy’s between them!

Percy wasn't at all fond of that last one, but nobody was paying his objections any mind.

Honestly, that entropy comparison was fairly spot-on.

Whatever. Art had faced worse situations.

Running a game of D&D-lite would be child's play for him. Probably.

Shit.


	11. Chapter Christmas

Art was incensed.

Furious.

_Super annoyed_.

He wasn’t ready to run an adventure off the cuff like this. He wasn’t ready to lead five people through a game he had never read the rules for. He wasn’t ready to teach five people the rules of a game they hadn’t even _heard of_ before this. He wasn’t ready to do any of this bullshit.

_He wasn’t ready_.

With those excuses and more, he demanded a few days of prep time.

No dice.

They were either excited to play, or excited to see him make a fool of himself. They wanted to do this _now_ , by golly. Thankfully, he was able to put his foot down. After a fair bit of whining, arguing, and no small amount of teasing, they finally decided on playing after lunch.

So instead of a few days, he had a few hours.

This was great.

Wonderful.

_Super awesome_.

“These rules are so fucking stupid,” he muttered, glancing over at the starter box materials. Character sheets, a single set of dice, and a premade adventure meant for three people. The classes were weird, the rules were weird, everything sucked, and he hated everything. Daphne could go to hell.

Whatever. Fifth edition was way more coherent than this garbage.

Time to do a bit of adaptation.

He would take them through a magical Christmas adventure full of fun and whimsy. Even if it killed him.

_And they would fucking enjoy it._

***

“You can’t,” Art said, crossing his arms.  
  
Percy frowned at him. “And why on earth not?”  
  
“No homebrews.”  
  
“This isn’t a matter of potions, so I’m not sure what you mean.”  
  
“Just pick from the list like everyone else, Percy.”  
  
“It’s a perfectly balanced race, you know. No broken racial abilities or obscene stats. I based it on orcs, with a bit of elf in there. If you see here, the difference is that these stats are slightly higher, while those are lower. It makes them more ideal for playing a caster. I’m sure you’ve realized that I plan to play a Wizard, and—”  
  
“You’re playing a _Wizard?_ ” Ron repeated, failing to hide his confusion as he looked up from his own character sheet. “But you’re already a Wizard.”  
  
With a snort, Percy looked away. “It’s a foreign set of rules, despite my having played similar games before. Besides, Wizards here are unlikely to be anything close to what we have here in reali—”  
  
Fred snickered. “Can’t bear the thought of trying something new, eh Percy?”  
  
“It’s a fantasy game,” he insisted, crossing his arms and stubbornly looking away. “Wizard is merely a name, not a descriptor. From what I’ve gleamed of the rules, it’s completely different to what we practice, and…”  
  
Percy trailed off and glared at George, who was yawning loudly and making a ‘blah blah blah’ motion with his hand.  
  
“What about you, Ronald?” he said, instead choosing to ignore them. Smart move, honestly. “Will you be playing a Sorcerer, Druid, or even a Warlock?”  
  
While Percy listed off some of the classes, Art sighed in contentment. These were so much better than the garbled class names that came with the game. _Honestly_. Lifeweaver, Spellslinger, or even Deepguard. The rules of S&S sucked, the classes were weird, and Art had no qualms about using what he could remember of 5E rules when he came across things that made no goddamn sense.  
  
And that happened a lot.  
  
Maybe he was just an old man, set in his ways. But at the same time, any system based on the older editions of Dungeons and Dragons was bound to suck ass. What even was the current edition? Second? _Advanced_ D&D. What a joke. Art was merely using his future knowledge to uplift society, as any decent time traveler would.  
  
That it exclusively benefited him was a happy accident, and nothing more.  
  
Ron looked back at his character sheet and squinted. “I’m a Barbarian. I get really mad, and I have a big sword.”  
  
“I see… I suppose I’ll have to do the heavy lifting when it comes to spells.”  
  
Harry perked up at that. “I still have spells, Percy! I have healing hands!”  
  
“Lay on hands, Harry,” Art corrected absently.  
  
“Yeah, that.”  
  
“Oh? Are you playing a Cleric, Harry?”  
  
“Nope, I’m a Paladin. I have a sword and shield, but I can also heal and stuff.”  
  
“Don’t say ‘ _and stuff_ ’, Harry. Just say ‘ _I can heal_ ’.” Percy sighed, shaking his head. “Still, I suppose that’s for the best. Young Ronald will be taking the majority of the hits, so you’ll probably be healing him a lot.”  
  
“Hey! I won’t be that bad,” Ron said with a scowl. “I have loads of health. And I hit really hard.”  
  
Fred laughed. “Little Ronnie is right, Perce. Like as not you’ll be needing all the healing.”  
  
“And what about you two?” Percy asked, glaring at his siblings. “Will you be so invincible as to not need any at all?”  
  
“’Course we will,” George said, clapping his twin on the back. “We’re shadows in the night, we are.”  
  
“Flies on the wall.”  
  
“Rogues,” Art said blandly. Then he paused, before adding, “Well, a Rogue and a Bard, technically.”  
  
One of them would end up playing the class like the other, no doubt.  
  
Percy gave him a slightly skeptical look. “What do you _mean_ , ‘technically’?”  
  
“They were insisting on either two Rogues or two Bards.” He shrugged. “It was a close thing, but I made them choose one of each. I’m amazing, so naturally, I won.”  
  
And wasn’t _that_ a harrowing conversation to have.  
  
He ended up forcing one of them to play the Bard, while the other could be a Rogue. They agreed, after no small amount of grumbling. Hurray for divine JM powers.  
  
It would probably come back to bite him in the ass, but he savored the victory all the same.

***

It was time.  
  
This was something that his players kept repeating, and Art himself kept ignoring in order to stall for time.  
  
But eventually, he had to confront the reality of the situation.  
  
It _was_ time. And he was ready.  
  
Well, sort of.  
  
In any case, there was no room for self-doubt at this point.  
  
Art took a deep breath, then he cleared his throat.  
  
“Right, is everyone ready? Too bad, we’re starting. Here’s the intro.”

***

Ron scratched the back of his head. “So what are we all doing on this ship?”  
  
Art glared at them all. “None of you were listening at all, were you.”  
  
He half expected as much.  
  
“I mean, I _was_ ,” he said sheepishly, “but you were going on for a while. It’s a lot to keep track of, is all. Almost a lecture, no offense.”  
  
“Offense taken,” Art snapped back. His monologues were second to none.  
  
“I had no trouble following it,” Percy said, placing a hand on his chest. “Rest assured, that I can lead our party through any story hurdles.”  
  
Fred leaned over and peered down at Percy’s stack of parchments.  
  
“Are you taking _notes_ , Percy?”  
  
Percy snorted. “ _Obviously_. There’s no telling when some obscure bit of information will come in handy later on.”  
  
“Merlin’s ghost, this really is a lecture.”  
  
With a sigh, Art turned back to the beginning of his script. “If you all insist. I shall repeat my tale.”  
  
“Oh no, no no,” George said, chuckling nervously. “That won’t be necessary. We definitely understand. We get it. No need to go through all of _that_ again.”  
  
“ _Really._ ” Art wasn’t convinced at all. “Then do tell, what task have you been hired to do?”  
  
“We’ve been hired by the prince to guard the cruise barge _Nakato—_ ”  
  
“Shush. Not you, Percy. I know _you’ve_ been listening.”  
  
George, looking a bit more uncomfortable now, glanced over at Percy for help. Art cleared his throat, shaking his head at both of them.  
  
“Well… You know. The thing, that he talked about. The mission.”  
  
“Quest.”  
  
“Yeah, that. We’re guarding the one thing.”  
  
Harry stood up, striking a pose and pointing grandly at Art. “It doesn’t matter. Of course we accept the quest. I’m in. We’re _all_ in. Point us where to go, and we’ll face down any manner of man or beast, for the good of all of us. I’m a Paladin, and I’ll protect everyone from evil.”  
  
Ron nodded. “I’ll kill anyone who gets in our way.”  
  
Fred put a hand over his heart. “I’ll keep our party in high spirits.”  
  
George also put a hand over Fred’s heart. “I’ll strike at our enemies from the shadows.”  
  
“And I’ll cast _eldritch blast_ until my fingers fall off,” muttered Percy, sounding unreasonably bitter as he organized his notes.  
  
It had taken some convincing, cleverly disguised as whining by the other players, but Percy had eventually given up and agreed to play a class that wasn’t a Wizard. A Warlock, as it turned out. Art couldn’t care less. The argument was hilarious to watch, though.  
  
Ron nudged him. “Chin up, Percy. You get a summon later, right?”  
  
“Yeah, _later_ ,” he said sullenly. “Until third level all I can cast is one measly spell between rests, hit people, and cast cantrips.”  
  
George sighed in contentment. “That’s a right shame. Maybe pick a Bard next time? I get two spell slots.”  
  
Narrowing his eyes at him, Art frowned. “Aren’t you the Rogue?”  
  
“Nope, that’d be me,” Fred said, lifting up his own character sheet and waving it about. “Not to worry. It can be confusing with us being twins, so we get that a lot. Might still be simpler to let us both be Bards… We can—“  
  
“ _No_.”  
  
He refused to be beaten so easily.  
  
George shrugged. “Your call.”  
  
“That’s beside the point, though,” whined Percy, refusing to let sleeping logs die. “Is there any good reason we can’t just start off at third level? It’d make me slightly less useless in a fight.”  
  
“Because I’m the JM, you’re all rookies, it’s less setup…” He paused, then added, “And because I say so.”

***

“Your assistance in this matter is appreciated, to be sure,” said Art, drawing himself up and deepening his voice as best as his prepubescent vocal cords could manage. “His majesty the prince will be present at this Winter Solstice gathering, as is tradition. And rumors have reached my ears that some unsavory types could be planning something untoward.”  
  
He paused, taking a sip of water.  
  
Ron leaned over to Harry and stage-whispered, “What’s he talking about?”  
  
“We’re fighting off some kidnappers, I think,” said Harry, fiddling with a twenty-sided die.  
  
“Oh, alright. Who is this guy, anyway?”  
  
Harry shrugged, and it was Percy who answered this time. “The prince’s advisor and close friend. The one who hired us for this quest,” he said, still sulking about the class change like the whiny baby he was.  
  
“Indeed,” Art said with a laugh, “the prince and I have known each other since years past. My name is Lysaen.”  
  
Fred looked down at his character sheet, slowly moving his index finger down the page. “Does this honorable gentleman look like he’s carrying any valuables? A necklace or coin purse, perhaps?”  
  
“He’s a nobleman, of course he’s loaded,” Art said, already starting to feel resigned. “Why do you ask?”  
  
“Well—would pickpocketing be a stealth, or sleight of hand check?”  
  
“ _Why_ are you pickpocketing your employer.”  
  
“We shouldn’t be doing that, should we?” Harry asked, peering over at Fred’s character sheet. “We’re good guys. I’m a good guy, at any rate. Lawful good guy. What’s your alignment, Fred?”  
  
“I don’t see how that’s pertinent.”  
  
Percy perked up, smiling nastily at his brother. “Of course it’s _pertinent_. Would your character do this thing, or would they not? It’s a simple question, brother.”  
  
“Fine then, _brother_ ,” he said. He looked down at his sheet and back up, a triumphant gleam appearing in his eye. “I’m a neutral, of the chaotic variety. Even aside from that, I’m a rogue. See? Stealing is just what this bloke does.”  
  
Harry crossed his arms. “Well, it doesn’t fit with _me_. I’m a good guy, and we’re a group of good guys.”  
  
“You don’t know about it, so don’t trouble yourself.”  
  
“Don’t I?” Harry looked over at Art. Art was sitting with eyes half-lidded, wondering why he agreed to this. “Art, do I notice him stealing? I do, right?”  
  
“I’ll make a stealth roll as well, then. There, a fifteen. Happy?”  
  
“Well I still _know_ about it, right?”  
  
“Stop metagaming, Harry,” Art said, just wanting this argument to end. “Unless you want to make a perception check and get your party in trouble, just forget it.”  
  
With a yawn, Ron stood up and walked over to the center table.  
  
“Oi, where are you headed?”  
  
“Oh, don’t pay me any mind. Gonna grab us some snacks. Anyone want anything? No? Just me? Right, brilliant.”  
  
“You still need to control your character, Ron,” Art said with a sigh.  
  
“He follows Harry around and does what he does.”  
  
George called after him. “Bring us back a spot of pumpkin juice, would you?”

***

“ _Blast!_ ” Art cried, slamming his fist on the table. “The villainous wretch, who calls himself Hans, has kidnapped his highness the prince. How could you all let this happen? This is exactly what I hired you to prevent!”  
  
George narrowed his eyes at Art. “Might be we could have stopped it… If we had a chance to fight ‘em before they up and disappeared.”  
  
Well that was what they got for arguing about alignment for ten minutes.  
  
Art waved him off. “That hardly matters. The only thing that matters now is for you to rescue the prince. Do this, and you will be paid in full. If you fail, however…”  
  
“We’ll be dead?” Fred tried.  
  
“Well, _yeah_ …”  
  
“Seems sort of obvious, but alright. We give chase.”  
  
Art cursed, quickly consulting his notes. “Uhhh… Right, can’t do that. As soon as Hans and the prince make their exit, a horde of kobolds run into the hall. They see you lot, and come towards you all snarling and screaming.”  
  
“Now hold on,” George said with a frown, “seems we should have noticed them before now. That advisor type must have been distracting us. What was his name again?”  
  
“You know…” Art said, fidgeting slightly. “I just said it, can’t you remember? I’m not just gonna repeat this stuff all the time. Too many names getting thrown about for that sort of thing, so you had better—"  
  
Percy checked his notes. “Lysan… Wait, no. Lysander. And it _was_ suspiciously timed… You may be on to something there, George.”  
  
With a sigh, Art relaxed. That was a close one.  
  
Fred leaned over and also checked Percy’s notes. “Merlin, Percy. Your handwriting is awful.”  
  
“I write quickly, so it’s a tradeoff. Not that _you’re_ one to talk.”  
  
Deciding to head off another ten-minute argument, Art cleared his throat and said, “Let’s not get off track. You’re getting attacked by kobolds. Naturally, I’ll need everyone to roll for initiative.”  
  
“What about Lysander, is he fighting as well?” When Art shook his head, Percy groaned. “Where’s _he_ gone, then?”  
  
“He ran off while you were arguing, obviously.”  
  
“Guess we didn’t notice _that_ either,” Fred grumbled.  
  
Harry looked over to the main table. “Ron, come on! We’re getting into a fight!”  
  
“Well it’s about _time_ ,” Ron said, running back with his hands full of sweets. “Who’re we fighting?”  
  
“Kobolds.”  
  
He frowned. “What are those?”  
  
“Lizard dog people. They walk on two legs.”  
  
“Oh,” he said, accepting the die that Harry offered and rolling it. “Doesn’t seem very Christmas-y.”  
  
Art glared at him. “What does _that_ mean?”  
  
“Nothing, nothing,” Ron said, putting up his hands and shrinking back.  
  
“Oh, _fine_. You want some more holiday spirit? We’ll have some more holiday spirit,” he said bitterly, crossing out several of his notes. “You only now notice that the Kobolds are all dressed like Santa’s little helpers.”  
  
“They must have snuck on board with the crew!” Harry said with a gasp.  
  
Fred nodded sagely. “They’re more cunning than we thought.”

***

“Right. Ron, you’re rolled highest on initiative. What do you do?”  
  
“I hit a kobold.”  
  
Art sighed. “Which one? And you have to move to it, first.”  
  
“Alright… Umm, let’s see here,” Ron squinted at the battle mat, then pointed at the group of figurines. “Which of those is supposed to be me?”  
  
Leaning across the tables, Art picked up the one that looked somewhat like a barbarian. “This one.”  
  
“Really?” he said, sounding dubious. “Looks nothing like me.”  
  
“Just take your turn already.”  
  
“Fine, fine. I go to… _That_ one, and swing my sword at it.” Ron moved his figurine up to the kobold, then rolled Harry’s die. “That’s a twelve. Is that good?”  
  
Art pointed at his character sheet. “Add your modifiers to the attack roll.”  
  
“Oh, alright,” he said, trailing off and staring blankly at his stats. “What exactly am I supposed to add to that?”  
  
“Your strength and proficiency modifiers.”  
  
Ron turned to stare blankly at Art instead. “What are those?”  
  
Art impatiently gestured to Harry, who seemed to understand the rules slightly more than Ron.  
  
“Proficiency is a two for all of us,” Harry muttered, scanning Ron’s sheet. “And your strength modifier is a three. So add five.”  
  
“Thanks, mate. That’s a seventeen then, in all.”  
  
Art nodded. “That’s a hit. Roll for damage.”  
  
Once again Ron consulted his character sheet, and Art was pretty sure he was beginning to see a pattern here.  
  
His face scrunched in confusion. “What’s ‘ _2d6_ ’ mean?”  
  
“Two six-sided dice,” Art said, nodding at the ones Percy handed over.  
  
“These are just normal dice, though.”  
  
“Lot of different types, so they have to be specific.”  
  
“That’s stupid,” he mumbled, even as he rolled the two die. “Four.”  
  
“Add your modifier.”  
  
He groaned. “ _Fine._ Nine damage.”  
  
“Just your strength, so that’s six damage.”  
  
“Now hold on, why don’t I add my proficiency to my damage?”  
  
“You’re not _proficient_ in damage, Ron. Proficiency is only for skill checks and attack rolls for weapons you have _proficiency in_.” Art paused, then waved his hand vaguely. “Until later on, then it also does some other stuff.”  
  
“Whatever. Six damage then. Do I kill it?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Brilliant,” Ron said with a snort. “Guess that’s me, done.”  
  
“Percy, you’re up next.”  
  
Percy sighed in resignation. “I cast _eldritch blast_.”

***

Art hated everyone.  
  
“I still think that shouldn’t have counted as an attack of opportunity,” Percy said.  
  
“It was your own fault for getting into the middle of a big group, instead of just letting us handle it,” George scolded. “You have spells, you’re not a frontline fighter.”  
  
“I used my only spell slot to save _you_ ,” he hissed, glaring at him. “What were _you_ doing in the thick of things? You’re a _Bard_.”  
  
Fred coughed. “ _Actually_ , the Bard would be me—”  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
“Friends, we can’t let hatred divide us,” Harry said, gesturing to all of them and clutching a hand to his chest. “We must stand as one, drive back the forces of darkness, and save Prince Horace from the evil clutches of Hans… Or whatever his name was.”  
  
At least Harry looked like he was having fun.

***

“That’s a ten for knowledge of arcana,” Percy said with a sigh. “I’m going to go ahead and assume that a ten isn’t going to cut it?”  
  
Art nodded. “You assume correctly. Your character tries and tries, but he can’t figure out how to open the massive set of doors. The lock remains a mystery to you.”  
  
George rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Are the doors sentient?”  
  
“Why would they be sentient?” Art said, staring at him.  
  
“Well, they’re magical. You never know.”  
  
“No, they aren’t sentient.”  
  
“But how can he tell?” Percy said, scratching the back of his head. “I failed my knowledge check, after all.”  
  
“They’re doors,” Art said blandly.  
  
“So, I _can’t_ cast _charm person_ on them. Is that what I’m hearing?”  
  
“That’s correct.”  
  
George leaned back in his chair, cradling a cup of juice. “Right, I’m out of ideas. You lot can handle this.”  
  
Percy glared at him. “Already? But you’ve been so _helpful_ thus far.”  
  
“Stuff it, Perce.”  
  
There was a brief silence where everyone was content to stew. Besides Harry. Harry was having far too good of a time to be angry, which was both very endearing and perhaps the only reason Art was still putting up with this. Gods but that boy had some low standards for what he thought was fun.  
  
Ron meandered back over to the table after a few moments, more food in hand.  
  
“You ready to rejoin us then, Ron?” Art asked.  
  
He shrugged, sitting down and looking around at everyone’s glum faces. “Did we figure out the double doors?”  
  
“I’m afraid not. The doors are just too clever for you lot to outsmart.”  
  
“Double doors… More like _dumble doors_ ,” Fred muttered, wheezing in exaggerated laughter. “M-more like _dum_ —"  
  
“This is bad,” George said gravely, “we’re losing him.”  
  
Harry hummed to himself. “Can we use a battering ram?”  
  
“It’s not a hard puzzle.”  
  
“Me and Harry can break it down, right?” Ron said, starting to sound excited for the first time since combat had ended. “Let me just make an attack roll. We’ll bust this thing open in no time flat.”  
  
“If you just took a few seconds to _think about it_ , you could—”  
  
“A-ha!” Percy cried, raising a finger in triumph. “Is there another way around?”  
  
Art scowled and cursed under his breath. “You see a staircase at the end of the hall. It leads down into the depths of the ship, so you already know it’s the wrong way.”  
  
“How do I know that? I never rolled for it.”  
  
“It’s just so obvious that you didn’t need to. Common sense, really.”  
  
George shook his head. “Still be best to explore. Could be loot.”  
  
“There’s _nothing_ down there. Just the engine room.”  
  
“Did common sense tell us _that_ as well?”  
  
“Common sense tells you that the door puzzle could easily be solved if you all could focus for more than ten seconds.”  
  
“I think it’s for the best that we split up,” Ron said, “that way we can cover more ground.”  
  
Art immediately began to panic.  
  
“Miraculously, the doors swing open, clearing the way. At the same time, the path down into the engine room collapses, and common sense tells you that you’ll never get past the blockage with enough time to also save the prince.”  
  
“Common sense is leading us down a rail, seems like,” Ron muttered.

***

Dinner had come and gone, and it had been a fairly nice affair. Sparkling decorations and a wealth of terrific food and drink. McGonagall had gotten _very_ tipsy, as well as a few others. Ah, the sweet smell of blackmail. The best Christmas present of all. Well, maybe not blackmail. Art would just think about her getting kissed by Hagrid whenever she annoyed him too much, and he would laugh at her stupid drunk face.  
  
Art’s secret desire was for his players to have stuffed themselves to exhaustion, and tragically be unable to play anymore. But _apparently,_ they were having too much fun. Bastards. To add insult to injury, Dumbledore had graciously allowed them all some extra time to wrap up their session before heading off to bed.  
  
Whatever. Art had never liked him anyway.  
  
In any case, he had to wrap this shit up soon. These kids were all enjoying this too much.  
  
“Ahh, so you have finally found us,” Art said, drawing himself up for his big speech. “You may have fought your way past my other minions, but you still have _me_ to face, as well as the rest of my kobolds. Unless I can convince you to let me and the prince slip past you?”  
  
Harry scowled, “Not a chance, Hans! Your evil plans stop here and now, I’ll—”  
  
“Now hold on just one moment here,” George said, holding his hands up in a placating fashion. “Let’s not be too hasty. This could be our big break.”  
  
Harry whirled on him; his eyes wide. “You would betray us? For money?”  
  
“Absolutely not. My character…” George paused, glancing down at his character sheet. “Frederic the Muse, he would never leave his friends out of a good deal. All I’m saying is we ought to talk this out, like adults.”  
  
Percy sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is a slippery slope. Even aside from that, aren’t we heroes?”  
  
“We _are_ heroes. And? So what?” George said, bringing his fist onto an open palm. “Do we not deserve to be paid fairly? I say we get what we can from this Hans person, then betray him.”  
  
“That’s _definitely_ against alignment.”  
  
“Accepting payment from a villain is already against alignment,” Harry said. Then he looked over at Art, who currently had his face buried in his hands. “We can just take his things after we beat him, right?”  
  
Percy nodded. “That’s how things are done, usually.”  
  
Art sighed and sat up, glaring at all of them. “Are you all quite done?”  
  
“Hold on,” Harry said. He turned to the hunched over Ron and poked him. “Ron, you awake? Does looting the villain after we beat him sound alright with you?”  
  
Ron swatted Harry’s hand away, keeping his eyes tightly shut. “Alright, Harry. Brilliant plan, Harry. No problems I can see, Harry.”  
  
“Right, good,” he said, turning back to Art and nodding. “We’re good.”  
  
“ _Finally_. You think you can defeat my splendid self so easily? _Fools!_ You have not seen even a glimpse of my true power. Once my glorious machine has sapped the prince of his power and birthright, I will be all-powerful and _unstoppable_. Look upon me in these final moments, while my loyal kobolds keep you at bay, and remember my face before I end all of your miserable lives. Your last thoughts will be of regret, that you could ever hope to take on someone like _me_ , and—” Art paused, looking down at the note that Fred was handing him. Flipping it open, he quickly scanned the contents before narrowing his eyes at the grinning teenager. “What.”  
  
“You read the note,” he said, doing his best to look innocent and failing miserably because he was guilty and what the _fuck_ Fred. “Let me roll for it, at least.”  
  
Ron perked up, glancing between the two of them. “Roll for what?”  
  
Art nodded, and Fred beamed and winked at Ron. “Win or lose, you’ll find out shortly.”  
  
Then he rolled his twenty-sided die.  
  
Art glared at it, even as everyone else watched it roll with excitement and confusion.  
  
A natural twenty.  
  
If he hadn’t already tried tampering with the dice to fudge rolls, Art would immediately call bullshit and kill Fred’s character.  
  
Instead, he sighed in resignation. “Yeah, alright. Roll for damage.”  
  
George cleared his throat. “Can he add my inspiration die to—”  
  
“No. Not for damage rolls,” Art said, shutting him down immediately.  
  
This would be bad enough without that stupid Bard ability.  
  
Fred rolled. Then he looked up at Art, his eyes practically sparkling. “Is that en—”  
  
“Of _course_ it’s enough, you git,” Art snapped, crumpling the piece of parchment he’d been holding. He tossed it over his shoulder. “You rolled a critical sneak attack on a normal, baseline, vanilla ice person. He dies. He dies so quickly and so instantly that it actually takes a few seconds for everyone to realize that his throat now has a hole in it the size of a damn grapefruit.”  
  
After that somewhat angry rant, there was a brief silence.  
  
“Is that it?” Ron asked, blinking blearily and looking around. “Did we win?”  
  
“I _think_ so,” Percy said, checking his notes. “That was the primary antagonist, and he did just die. I think we did it.”  
  
“Snuffed out like a fart in the wind,” Fred said with a grin.  
  
Harry scratched the back of his head. “Huh. That was… Disappointing.”  
  
“Blame the rogue,” Art said.  
  
Fucking rogues.  
  
Percy scowled at Fred, who was now looking very smug. “Did you have to kill him before we could get any hits in?”  
  
“I just ended the conflict before anyone could get hurt,” he said, crossing his arms defensively. “You lot should be thanking me for being smart and using my head.”  
  
“Why’d you have to kill him?” Harry asked, sounding a bit put out. “Weren’t we supposed to just take him down, then stick him in prison? Thought that was more or less the plan. Justice, and whatnot.”  
  
“The _plan_ was to save the prince. And I think we’ve done just that,” Fred said, trying to start his own slow clap. “Splendid job, team. Knew we had it in us.”  
  
Ron yawned. “Still, was sort of looking forward to the big boss fight.”  
  
“True,” Percy said, idly playing with his die. “A big showdown sounds more grand and exciting, that’s for certain.”  
  
Looking at the mixed emotions around him, Art cursed internally. This was annoying, but it wasn’t the end of the world. This entire adventure was basically ad-libbed from the get-go. He could probably pluck something fun out of the blue.  
  
As to why he was even making the effort, that’s a question he decided to ignore as soon as it came up in his head. For reasons.  
  
With a grand flourish of his hands, Art stood up. His voice was thunderous. “As your party is talking amongst themselves, the kobolds surrounding you are confused and without leadership. Near falling to chaos. Then a grand doorway opens, and in stomps a suit of steel and gold! Twelve feet high, with a glowing green core set in the center of its chest. The joints are gears and clockwork, and it holds a huge butcher sword in both hands.”  
  
“Now hold on a second,” Fred said in outrage, much to Art’s delight. “Who is _this_ supposed to be? The villain is gone, we’ve already done it, and this _thing_ just waltzes in?”  
  
After a bit of muttering, Harry gasped. “It’s the advisor! The one who gave us the mission at the beginning. This has been his scheme the entire time!”  
  
Art grinned widely. There was an idea. He knew he liked that kid.  
  
“Oh no,” Percy said, noticing Art’s malicious grin and shifting uneasily. “Think you got the right of it, Harry. We’ve been played.”  
  
“Tricked,” Fred said bitterly.  
  
“And quite possibly bamboozled,” George finished.  
  
Ron, finally looking interested in the game, squinted. “Already forgotten that advisor bloke’s name, honestly.”  
  
“You’re not alone,” Fred said with a snort.  
  
“ _Ahhh_ , I see you’ve already done away with that irksome insect,” Art said, beaming at them and lacing his fingers together. “I was afraid you would be too weak to handle even that nuisance. When I kill you and send this vessel crashing down to the planet below, my survival will make for quite the tale. That’s right. I, Lysanderoth, will take the power of the little prince for my own, and do away with my troublesome partner. _Hans_. That fool will trouble me no longer. All thanks to you.”  
  
“You fiend!” Harry cried, shaking his fist and trying to contain his excitement. “We’ll never let you kill Prince Horace.”  
  
“Or us,” Ron quickly added.  
  
“Or us!” Harry repeated. “We’ll defeat you, and you will pay for your crimes!”  
  
Percy hummed, looking back through his notes with a frown. “This seems out of character for him… Very sudden. What’s more, are you sure his name is _Lysandero—_ "  
  
“Don’t make me drop rocks on all of you,” Art warned. He could feel the headaches starting already. His patience was thin enough as it was. “Mark my words. Keep doing what you’re doing, and you’ll get an avalanche.”  
  
George laughed. “On a starship? How would _that_ make any se—”  
  
“ _Don’t. Tempt. Me._ ”

***

It was a disaster. No other word for it. But that was fairly inevitable, given who was playing and Art’s own lack of preparation. There was yelling and confusion, betrayal and rules-lawyering, alignment fights, and actual fights. Until, at long last, McGonagall stormed into the room and forced them to put an end to the session before she put an end to all of their worthless lives. That was the mood she was in, at any rate, if not an actual quote.  
  
As for Art? He was frustrated, no doubt. And he was fairly certain he never wanted to do this again. Daphne could eat her heart out, and Art would be tempted to carve it out and feed it to her the next time he saw that miserable bitch. He’d at least have a few choice words for her.  
  
In the end, there was laughing, yelling, raging, and loads of petty vengeance between the six of them.  
  
It was the best Christmas Art had ever had.


	12. Chapter Twelve

The rest of the holiday break passed without incident.  
  
Well, not _without_ incident.  
  
Never without.  
  
No one was capable of giving Art a day off from nagging, after all. Especially not after he had introduced them all to the wonders of being railroaded.  
  
That being said, it was downright _serene_ compared to that fateful night. Come Christmas morning everyone seemed to have other things to do. Now, Art was gracious enough to be the grownup and give them all the benefit of the doubt. They had other things to do with their free time.  
  
Shiny new toys to play around with, pranks to pull, adventures to have, and anything else that didn’t involve sitting around and throwing dice while his narration got progressively more and more pointed and frustrated.  
  
He frowned.  
  
Okay, maybe they _were_ avoiding him.  
  
A little.  
  
He was being grownup about this, goddammit.  
  
Percy had apparently decided that his siblings weren’t worth the hassle of trying to play with. That, or he really hated the Warlock. That probably had something to do with it. That was understandable, at least.  
  
Heck, even Harry had begged off. Bit of a surprise, that. After how much the little brat had enjoyed their first session, Art had expected a lot of whining for an encore. But he had barely seen any sign of him at all since Christmas morning. The few times they came across each other, he and Ron were acting more subdued and cagey than usual. And that was saying a lot.  
  
Harry seemed distracted, that much was clear.  
  
Might be that he got a shit present or something. Oh well. Art hardly minded. Saved him the headaches.  
  
If no one wanted to play another session, then that was just _fine_ with him.  
  
He didn’t care.  
  
Good riddance to the game. He was ready to wash his hands of it all.  
  
Art had more than half a mind to return it to Daphne, perhaps two-thirds of a mind, but then he decided that returning it was too much work. And too thoughtful, besides.  
  
If she wanted it back, she could ask him.  
  
Nicely.  
  
When she refused to do _that_ , she could buy another.  
  
She was rich, wasn’t she?  
  
Yeah.  
  
After that disastrous experience, he wasn’t nearly as eager to put himself through another session of chaos. No sirree.  
  
Not on his life.  
  
And certainly not on _her_ say-so, stuck-up that she was.  
  
In any case, all of that Christmas roleplaying nonsense was behind him now. Firmly behind him. All long gone in the past. The holidays were over, and it was time for the term to resume. Classes and homework. Bickering and passing the time.  
  
At last, a return to normality, and—  
  
Well…  
  
A return to Hogwarts normality.  
  
Whatever _that_ meant.  
  
Students had returned, and classes would start back up again the following day.  
  
Classes, homework, and hallway hexes.  
  
Back to the old, abnormal, regularly scheduled sort of nonsense.  
  
His first order of business was to find Hermione and nag at her about how awful her housemates were, in that tone of voice that made it clear he was imitating her. Once she was suitably annoyed and reacquainted with his snark, as well as his tendency to exaggerate things, he regaled her with the saga of that damnable tabletop session.  
  
Best to keep her on the backfoot, lest she start accusing him of having fun or something.  
  
“And that’s the story of how I saved Christmas,” he said, nodding patiently at her befuddled expression.  
  
Completely understandable.  
  
It had been a weird night.  
  
“Did any of that actually happen?” she said, at last. More thinking out loud than actually asking him.  
  
So naturally, he responded anyway.  
  
“What? What’s that supposed to mean?” Art demanded, crossing his arms and narrowing his eyes at her. “It’s true, you know. All of it.”  
  
She scoffed. “Is it really? Every part? The part where you begged Professor Dumbledore to let you continue the session? On your knees, groveling, was it? Oh yes, that sounds _very_ much like you. Please.”  
  
Fine. Parts of it were made up.  
  
Art changed the subject. “Just because your vacation was such a dull affair doesn’t mean you need to belittle mine.”  
  
She scowled at him, so clearly his banter was superior.  
  
“I’ll have you know that my vacation was—” she floundered, then pressed on stubbornly. “It was perfectly _fine_. Lovely, even.”  
  
Wonderful retort, Hermione. Ten out of ten.  
  
He tilted his head innocently. “Are you sure about that?”  
  
“Of _course_ I’m sure.”  
  
“Because you don’t _sound_ —”  
  
“Very sure,” she said, cutting him off with a glare. “It was a wonderful Christmas, and I wouldn’t have spent it any other way.”  
  
He shrugged. “If you say so.”  
  
“I do say so.”  
  
Well, now he _had_ to push it.  
  
“You know, Hermione. You can just come out and admit that you missed me,” he said, solemnly placing a hand on her shoulder. “I won’t tease you for it. Promise.”  
  
She smiled, which meant he had taken a wrong turn somewhere. “Funny you should mention that. Have you taken to waiting around in the entrance hall for no apparent reason since I’ve been gone, or could it be that you were waiting for someone to get back?”  
  
That was uncalled for.  
  
He closed his eyes and nodded. “You’ve caught me redhanded, Hermione. I have been waiting for someone.”  
  
“Thought so,” she said smugly.  
  
“You’re a credit to your house,” he said with a sigh, looking around the hall. “I might have missed him, just a tad. You haven’t seen Neville yet, have you?”  
  
She groaned and shoved past him, making her way down the hall.  
  
Art followed, whistling a jaunty tune and thinking to himself.  
  
Maybe Hermione had a point.  
  
Maybe she _wasn’t_ the only one who needed to get used to dealing with annoying people at school again. He was being too nice.  
  
It was obvious enough in retrospect.  
  
The holidays had him going soft, warming his heart, making him more friendly, and other garbage. Would the Art from the beginning of term have agreed to babysit a bunch of degenerate Gryffindors for all of Christmas Eve?  
  
Absolutely not.  
  
Art glared at the depths of his soul and decided to distract himself from his self-loathing by instead distracting Hermione from her own faux-loathing of him.  
  
A tall order, worded in a convoluted way.  
  
“How was that one book I loaned you?” he asked mildly, adopting a friendly expression that felt far too normal. “It was _very_ heavy, so I wouldn’t be surprised if you decided not to bother, or if you forgot about it.”  
  
This immediately popped her stupid bubble of bubbliness.  
  
Ha. Take that.  
  
She averted her eyes, and he narrowed his in turn.  
  
“Did you end up looking at it?”  
  
“You could say that,” she said, her eyes slowly drifting to the ceiling.  
  
Now hold on, that wasn’t the response he wanted.  
  
This was outrageous.  
  
It was unfair.  
  
How dare she react contrary to his expectations?  
  
“I could say that? Don’t tell me you actually _read_ that thing, that big blasted rulebook. Did you?” His face fell when she didn’t immediately respond. “You read all of it, didn’t you.”  
  
Drawing herself up, she lifted her chin defiantly at him. “I did.”  
  
“You put a bunch of work into a charter, didn’t you.”  
  
“I did.”  
  
“You’re going to get me roped into talking to McGonagall, aren’t you.”  
  
Finally, she turned to scowl at him. “Oh hush, this whole operation was your idea. You’re not being roped into anything. In fact, feel free to refuse. Make it so all of my effort was for nothing. Go on, make your excuses. I’m sure you have so many more important things to do instead of helping me execute _your_ idea. I might wonder why you spent so much time coming up with plans for a club in the first place, but I’m sure you have your own convoluted reasons for it. And furthermore, don’t bother asking me too—”  
  
He groaned in put-upon frustration, dragging his feet in the general direction of the staircase deathtrap. “ _Fine_ , let’s go talk to McGonagall. You can stop roping me in now.”

***

Art and Hermione stood before the door to McGonagall’s classroom.  
  
“I still think this is a foolhardy idea,” he said, glowering in her general direction without glowering at her directly. That would be too risky.  
  
She closed her eyes and sighed, but otherwise didn’t rise to his bait.  
  
He went on, more to disguise his nerves than anything. “I mean, honestly. What are the two of us going to do in a club? Like as not we’ll be sitting in some classroom, doing a whole lot of nothing with our time while waiting for something that isn’t nothing to happen.”  
  
Again, she didn’t respond. So he kept going. “And what’s more, why did you go through all of this effort in writing this thing up? What, did you get bored after revising your Christmas homework for the fourth time?”  
  
Yeah, that made sense.  
  
At this, she spared him a look.  
  
“Well,” she said slowly, fiddling with some of the parchments in her hands. He narrowed his eyes at them, but they were all folded up and Hermione was being really mean and not letting him read any of them. “I suppose I wanted it to be a surprise. The club charter, and all of the writeups I did for it… It’s supposed to be a gift. At least, that was my idea for it.”  
  
He hummed in thought. “Didn’t you already send me a gift? What’s with this over-achieving nonsense? This isn’t like you at all, Hermione.”  
  
“Ha,” she said.  
  
Only a single ha.  
  
Art nodded.  
  
An appropriate response.  
  
Before he had the chance to annoy her further, the door to McGonagall’s office swung open of its own accord.  
  
It was like magic.  
  
“Hurry on in, then,” McGonagallagallagall called from the room beyond.  
  
Merlin, her name was exhausting. Too many syllables.  
  
Chin raised and back ramrod straight, Hermione wasted no time marching into the room with all her weird paperwork in hand.  
  
Art, on the other hand, made sure to take a few seconds and let his life flash before his eyes, before finally hunching over and dragging his feet after her.  
  
Oh, the Transfiguration classroom.  
  
Just as dreary as always.  
  
The two of them stopped in front of McGonagall’s desk. She didn’t look up at them right away, taking her time with what looked like the grading of some holiday homework.  
  
Hermione seemed content to wait. Art was not.  
  
“Hiya, Professor,” he said, clearing his throat and ignoring Hermione’s glare. “Have a nice vacation?”  
  
“I have had better, Mister Crouch. But I thank you for asking.” She glanced up, her eyes drifting between the two of them. “I would ask how yours was, but sadly I already know the answer. Miss Granger, I hope your time off was peaceful and productive.”  
  
Hermione smiled. “It was, Professor. Thank you…”  
  
Then there was more silence.  
  
Hermione looked over at him, very subtly jerking her head towards McGonagall.  
  
What?  
  
Professor McGonagall looked between them again, slowly raising an eyebrow. “Was there something the two of you wanted to speak with me about? While it is nice of you to stop by, I have things I must see to before Transfiguration starts back up.”  
  
No. Come on. No.  
  
Hermione poked him in the shoulder.  
  
He stared at her, eyes widening until they started to burn, and mouthed it.  
  
 _Nooooo._  
  
She nodded, her eyes repeatedly and very deliberately darting between him and McGonagall.  
  
Hermione Granger, everyone.  
  
Master of intrigue.  
  
“Mister Crouch,” McGonagall said because she was a heartless witch with no soul, who hated children and probably favored Hermione because she was a Gryffindor and everyone sucked. “You had something to say to me?”  
  
Truth was, the game was rigged from the start. Always had been.  
  
Fine.  
  
Raising a fist to his mouth, Art cleared his throat. “Professor McGonagall. I am approaching you today, humble and contrite, to ask you for just one thing. We, the two of us, Hermione and I— but more specifically Hermione seeing as you’re _her_ head of house and not _mine_ …” He trailed off to glare at Hermione, whose gaze was firmly on the wall behind McGonagall. “Are seeking your stamp of approval in the formation of a student organization, by way of the two students exception pending the approval of a head of house, as specified on page two hundred and four in the officially sanctioned Hogwarks club rulebook known as _Guidelines and Regulations for the Establishment and Continuing Operation of Student-Led Extra-Curricular Organizations_.”  
  
One thing Art hated about his life was that he had thought to memorize those canned lines from that awful, _awful_ book.  
  
He paused to take a breath, and Hermione stepped forward to hand the papers to McGonagall before stepping back again. The poor old Professor looked like she was regretting her life’s choices up until this moment, and Art could relate.  
  
 _Ha_. Served her right.  
  
“In that packet of documents my associate just handed you, which make up our official charter, you’ll find all of the proper paperwork and required documentation about our club, which is…” Art trailed off again, this time to scrunch up his face into a frown and peer over at the papers Hermione had just handed over. “Just… Really solid. Super cool. I’m sure of it.”  
  
“ _Art,_ ” Hermione hissed.  
  
He glared at her and lowered his voice to a whisper. “I don’t actually know what the club _is_ , Hermione. That’s your extended essay up there. Not mine.”  
  
“This whole club thing was your idea, wasn’t it?” she whispered back, her voice torn between frustration and confusion. Once again, Art could relate. “That bit of paper you had, the one I— _borrowed_ , I wrote up the whole charter based on that.”  
  
Oh. Okay, that made more sense.  
  
Art turned back to the Professor, who seemed resigned to flipping through the pages of Hermione’s manifesto.  
  
He opened his mouth. Then he closed it. He blinked.  
  
Looking over at Hermione, he frowned and whispered again. “Wait… Which _part_ of the list? The one where I get to practice magic and get extra credit for it? Or the one where we gather information on different students and sell that intel to their rivals and enemies for a hefty profit?”  
  
Those were the only ones he could remember.  
  
“No, of course not,” she said, almost sounding insulted that he had even brought them up. “Those are entirely Slytherin ideas— though I suppose you could argue that the practicing magic one leans more Ravenclaw… But even so. At the core of it, this had to be a Gryffindor club.”  
  
“Hurray,” he muttered.  
  
She huffed. “Well, what did you expect? The final say is with McGonagall, and I’d welcome you to try and sell one of your _other_ ideas to her.”  
  
True enough.  
  
“Fine. What idea did you go with, then?”  
  
Hermione was about to respond when Professor McGonagall rudely interrupted by clearing her throat.  
  
Feeling particularly annoyed and not at _all_ liking the amused look on that woman’s face, he sighed. “Yes, Professor?”  
  
“I’m sorry to interrupt your… Last-minute debating,” she said, and her tone, unfortunately, matched her change in demeanor. “But you are here to get your club approved, and we really must be getting on with it…”  
  
Hermione wilted, wringing her hands together. “So sorry. You’re right of course, Professor. Art was just confused, is all.”  
  
Oh, fuck right off.

"With a charter of this sort of depth, I can sympathize," she said, and now Art _really_ wanted to read the papers. Damn it all, Hermione. "I wasn't expecting anything quite so detailed from you, Mister Crouch. That being said, I find myself pleasantly surprised at the focus of your new group."

"Oh?" he said, his voice sounding faint. "Why do you say that?"

"It's properly Gryffindor, so I suspect Miss Granger had no small amount of input. Especially when it came to the… Length."

Art went on, feeling slightly lightheaded. “It was only natural, Professor. We might have gone for something less obviously favorable to you, but that would involve appealing to Professor Snape… I’m sure you can imagine how that would go.”  
  
Damn that man. This was his fault.  
  
And Hermione’s.  
  
And Draco’s.  
  
“I understand, yes.” McGonagall sighed, some of her good humor leaving her. She shook her head. “ _Well_ , it is a good thing you brought this to me then. Not just because I am more likely than Professor Snape to take petitions like this seriously, but because this concept and charter are positively _inspired_.”  
  
They were, were they?  
  
Art turned to stare at Hermione and was unsurprised to find her almost completely facing away from him. He attempted to glare a hole into the back of her head, to no avail.  
  
“Why do you say that?” he said, dreading the answer.  
  
“It is such a lovely idea, is it not? Yes, I can see Miss Granger's hand in it clearly. An opportunity for the two of you to bring students together, across houses, in service of a common cause. Almost Hufflepuff in nature, I suppose, but still commendable regardless.” She smiled, looking back down at the stack of papers and flipping to the last one. “I'm almost of a mind to approve it right now, in fact. Will you be keeping the name you wrote here on the form? _The Service Club_? It’s a little on-the-nose, but that isn’t necessarily a negative.”  
  
The Service Club.  
  
Art sighed, closing his eyes in weary resignation.  
  
That settled it.  
  
Hermione would have to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I am the mightiest Necromancer.  
> AN PS: Something-something death of the author.


End file.
